


Dinnṡeanċas

by Pseudothyrum



Series: The Discoverie of Witchcraft [6]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, The Question (Comics)
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Fairy Tales, Gen, He's whistling Ghost Town by The Specials, London is slightly less of a train wreck than Hub City, Lots of pure symbolic twattery, Occult horror, Politics, Urban Legends, You'll know what I mean when you get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: John Constantine's run off to London because feelings are hard and so is getting kidnapped by your crazy ex. Vic Sage has gone to London because he does not take kindly to being ditched after saving someone from their crazy ex. London stays where it is, suddenly overrun by ambulant catastrophes and moody vigilantes.





	1. Unity of Place

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! This one goes out to my beta, without whom I would have never finished this, and to every single person who commented on any other part of this story, you and your kind words kept me going while writing this, thank you so much!

Charlie’s hand holding the Chinese food sags slightly, and he cocks his head.

“You have to go to London? Right now?” He doesn’t sound angry or disappointed, just mildly confused. The twisting in Constantine’s gut gets a little stronger. He grins, as unruffled on the surface as he is unsettled underneath.

“‘Fraid so, love,” he pushes off of the couch, some small part of him loudly protesting what an awful idea this will be, “I’ll write.”

He is gone before Charlie can say another word.

***

The time passes much faster than Constantine expects, largely in a blur of regrettable nights spent pissed out of his mind, pouring out his soul to a series of strangers in any pub in London that hasn’t already barred him.

He wakes up, one morning, with his face pressed into a bare mattress, still wearing all of his clothes, to the sound of his phone ringing.

“‘Lo?” He mutters, answering it largely to silence the trilling noise that is attempting to drill its way through his temples.

“Hello, John,” Constantine is instantly sober, bolting upright out of the puddle of drool he had been lying in.

“Charlie,” he says, and then, unable to think of anything else to say, “how did you get my number?”

“Funnily enough, I’ve had some experience in investigation, John,” Charlie still doesn’t sound angry, which at this moment is a definite plus, “As you might imagine, I began to grow slightly worried when I didn’t hear from you for three weeks. Must be a hell of a case you have out there in London.” Constantine coughs uncomfortably.

“Er, yeah, a bloody big one, no end in sight, Charlie. Sorry for not calling but I was... caught up.” It sounds like bullshit to his own ears. He’s too hung over for this.

“Maybe I should come to London then, help you out” Charlie says, sounding so damn reasonable.

“There’s no need, Charlie, it’s all magic and--”

“I’m booking the ticket.”

“There’s really nothing you can do to--”

“I’ll be there on Tuesday. I’ll email you the details.” There is a soft click as Charlie hangs up the phone without another word. Constantine doesn’t even have time to ask how Charlie knows what his email address is.

***

“So you just... left the country?” Chas asks incredulously as he changes lanes.

“I mean, it sounds bad when you say it like that,” Constantine says, slumping down a little in his seat and folding his arms across his chest.

“I think it would sound bad no matter how he said it, dear,” says the old lady sitting in the back of Chas’ cab.

“Right, nobody was asking, Violet,” Constantine says sulkily, “Chas, could you remind me why precisely you picked up a fare when I needed a ride?”

“Were you planning to pay for the ride, John?” Chas asks pointedly. Constantine doesn’t answer, sinking further into his seat. “That would be why.”

“He’s a bit rude,” Violet stage whispers from the backseat.

“You have no idea,” Chas says, rolling his eyes. Constantine scowls and looks out the window, ignoring the pleasant conversation in favour of watching the English countryside fly by. He tries very hard not to think about what it is that they are hurtling towards, about seeing Charlie again, about whether Charlie will actually be happy to see him, or if he’s managed to fuck this up like he does everything else in his life. He briefly contemplates opening the door and bailing out onto the M4, though that would mean abandoning Charlie to the mercies of Chas and the judgemental harridan in his backseat, and he’s not quite that much of a bastard.

  
It takes all too short a time for them to roll up to Heathrow, and after Chas manages to chivvy Violet and all of her very unwelcome advice out of the cab and into the terminal they lean against the hood, Constantine chain-smoking cigarettes as he watches the crowds.

“Alright, John?” Chas asks, eying him sideways. Constantine shrugs, doesn’t look at him. “So, how are you planning to chase this one off, then?” Constantine turns his head sharply.

“I’m not chasing anyone off, Chas. I never do.” Chas snorts.

“Right, ‘course you don’t. You told him that all your friends are dead or in Hell and he would be safer to keep his distance yet?” Constantine scowls, and neatly dodges the question.

“You’re not dead, mate, last time I checked. Angie’s still alive. So’s Ziv, that prick. Plenty of me mates are still alive.”

“Ziv is dead, John,” Chas says.

“What, when?” Constantine asks, pressing the dying ember of his cigarette against a fresh one.

“Two nights ago, they reckon. Bloody idiot topped himself in a pond in Epping Forest.” Constantine lets out a long, slow stream of smoke.

“Out of nowhere, like?” he asks, scanning the faces of the crowd pushing its way out of the doors.

“Dunno,” Chas shrugs, “he went a bit funny just before, started talking about seeing himself around town. Told Imogen that he chased himself all the way to Hampstead Heath before losing himself.” Constantine snorts

“Typical bloody Ziv, innit. Can’t be relied on for anything, not even to stay alive. Wanker.” Chas nods in silent agreement. Constantine opens his mouth to speak, but before he can make a sound his eye is caught by a flash of orange in the crowd. Almost immediately Charlie is in front of him, a slight smile on his lips. Constantine’s first reaction is to try to make a smart remark, but he’s caught off-guard by Charlie hugging him tightly, his head resting for a moment on Constantine’s shoulder. As suddenly as it began it is over, and Charlie is standing a foot away, looking completely unruffled and eying Chas up and down.

“Hello,” he says, “are you a friend of John’s?” Constantine, still reeling slightly, looks over at Chas, who sticks his hand out to shake.

“Chas. His best mate,” Chas confirms, then grins and adds, “well, the only surviving one.” Constantine elbows him hard in the ribs, then smiles broadly at Charlie, who’s arching an eyebrow. He opens the door at the rear of the car and scoops up Charlie’s bag to drop in the boot.

“Let’s get a shift on,” he says, “before those tourists come over here and try to murder us for the cab.” He jerks a thumb at a gaggle of obvious Americans who are eying Chas’ taxi covetously and whispering furiously amongst themselves.

***

The first half of the drive passes mostly in a blur, with Charlie turning on his full newsreader’s charm for Chas. Constantine drifts between listening to them discuss the relative merits of various internet forums and observing the way Charlie is sitting, comfortable but firmly contained within his own seat, his hands never wandering into Constantine’s space no matter how wildly he gesticulates. In the midst of contemplating he realizes somebody has called his name.

“Huhwha?” He says, eloquently.

“I said this case of yours must be pretty serious,” Charlie says, “to have kept you working for so long.” His face is impassive, his voice neutral.

“Oh, yeah, very serious. Very serious.”

“Chas here was just telling me that he hardly knows anything about it at all. He couldn’t answer any of my questions.” Constantine catches Chas’ eyes in the rearview mirror. Chas shrugs apologetically, looking vaguely harried, and Constantine instantly regrets not paying attention to their conversation. He regrets even more that his mind has gone completely blank of any case he’s ever worked in London. He says the first thing that springs to mind.

“Yeah, there was a recent development, but Chas didn’t know it was connected. An old mate of ours turned up dead in a pond in Essex.” Charlie looks at Chas, who, bless him, nods solemnly.

“I reckon it’s a grindylow living in one of ponds that’s grown a taste for human flesh,” he invents smoothly, “it’s killed maybe a dozen so far.” He ignores the glance Chas casts him in the rearview mirror.

“And this has taken almost a month?” Charlie asks, sounding a little too amused.

“They’re right slippery bastards, alright?” Constantine says defensively. He is saved from having to continue explaining when they arrive at an unreasonably nice hotel in Bloomsbury. It looks, Constantine reflects, like the sort of place that would actually be distressed to discover black magic rites being performed in one of its rooms. He gets out of the cab slowly, and comes to stand next to Charlie and Chas, who are speaking amicably on the pavement.

“How much do I owe you, Chas?” Charlie asks, fishing his wallet out of his coat.

“You’re... actually going to pay for the ride?” Chas asks, then turns and grabs John by the tie, hauling him closer. “Don’t let this one die, John,” he growls, plucking some cash out of Charlie’s hand and sliding back into his cab.

“Do you not typically pay for cabs, John?” Charlie asks, watching Chas speed away as though he’s worried Charlie might try to leap in through a window and snatch his money back. Constantine shrugs and grins.

“He’s my best mate.” Charlie regards him for a long moment, then picks up the bag and walks into the hotel. Constantine, unsure, follows.

***

“So,” Charlie says, tossing his suitcase on the bed and turning to face him, “shall we go out and look at your haunted pond, then?”

“What, now? You just sent Chas away!”

“Well, yeah. Is there not-- is he the only cabbie in London?” Charlie looks genuinely confused.

“Just the only one who I trust to always let me blag a lift,” Charlie’s brow furrows slightly, and Constantine feels suddenly pressed to hurriedly add, “he’s the only one I’d trust to back us up and not run off at the first sight of a demon.” Charlie relaxes a little, and Constantine pounces. “Besides, love, you’ve only just arrived, and it’s already half seven, by the time we get there it’ll be dark and we’ll both probably end up drowning in a non-haunted pond because we put a foot wrong. Maybe we could head down the pub, I know a good one near here, and I’m not even barred yet. Or go sightseeing, I know you Yanks love that. Or,” he steps closer, into Charlie’s space, and grins, “we don’t have to leave the room at all.” Charlie raises his eyebrow, but doesn’t step back.

“I guess we can go to the pub. I think I could do without the sightseeing, if I’m honest. One city’s the same as any other.” Constantine puts a hand to his chest in mock horror.

“London,” he says, stepping out of Charlie’s space and towards the door, “is nothing like Hub City. You’ll note, for example, that we didn’t get robbed even once between the airport and here.” He steps out into the hallway, and for a moment he thinks that Charlie won’t follow him; then Charlie is pulling the door shut behind him, tucking the hotel key into a pocket of his trousers. Charlie smiles, but it doesn’t quite make it to his eyes.

“Lead the way,” he says.

***

Constantine takes him to a pub in Camden, some vestige of the punk mentality driving him away from the chain pubs that litter central London. Constantine nods at Jez, the bouncer, as he leads Charlie past the mostly empty dance floor and upstairs to stand in front of the bar.

“Who’s this then?” the grinning barmaid appears seemingly out of nowhere, and winks at Constantine, “won’t your Vic be jealous?”

“Bloody-- this _is_ Vic, Frankie,” Constantine says, scowling at her, immediately regretting his instinctive urge to avoid the anonymity of a chain pub. The woman casts a newly appraising eye at Charlie, then nods.

“Alright, Vic,” she says, grinning at him, “finally decided to put our John out of his misery?” Charlie smiles, suddenly all easy charm.

“Well you have to let them stew sometimes, right? Keeps ‘em keen.” Frankie laughs, and Constantine shifts uncomfortably.

“You do, right enough!” She says, leaning on the bar with her elbow and putting her chin in her hand.

“So, John’s told you about me?” Charlie’s tone is still light but there’s an edge to him that Constantine doesn’t think Frankie has noticed, “All good things, I hope?” Constantine coughs loudly, trying to draw their attention away from each other, but neither of them looks at him.

“Oh aye,” she laughs, “don’t you worry, almost every night he’s in here, telling us--” Constantine leans into Charlie’s space and Frankie’s line of sight, talking loudly before she can continue.

“How about you grab us two pints, luv?” he says, grinning at her, trying to ignore the way that Charlie’s face goes stonily calculating, his smile sliding off his face as soon as her back is turned.

“She seems nice,” Charlie says, his voice neutral, “I’m glad you found some time between investigating a series of murders to go to a bar every night.” Constantine is saved from having to answer by the return of Frankie, who smiles sweetly at Charlie as she slides their pints towards them. Charlie leans a bit on the bar, opening his mouth, and Constantine can see the question forming in his mind.

“Let’s go sit over there, Vic,” Constantine says, picking up their pints and casting a meaningful glare at Frankie, who lifts her hands up in surrender and heads for the other end of the bar. Charlie trails after him, clearly reluctant to be moving away from the other people for the dark, empty corner table.

“So what’s--” Charlie starts to ask, but Constantine, having drunk about half his pint in one go, cuts him off.

“When I first got to London, Camden was a much better place,” he says, because he doesn’t know what to say and his brain has defaulted back along well-worn lines of complaint, “now it’s all tourists and posh kids renting expensive bedsits and getting arts degrees to get back at daddy. Can’t even smoke in here anymore,” Charlie tsks loudly, and Constantine looks at the fag that he’s absentmindedly tapped out of the pack. “Oh. Sorry.” He moves his hand in a flourish and the cigarette vanishes down his coat sleeve. “They’ve just ruined this place, right? It’s the first pub that would let me in when I got off the train from Liverpool. Which, by the way, is why I’m barred from every pub around King’s Cross. They don’t really take it well when you try to curse the bar staff.” Charlie’s mouth twitches, too fast to read, but he says nothing, just watches Constantine drink the rest of his pint. “You gonna drink that?” he asks, and when Charlie shakes his head he grabs Charlie’s pint and drains it in one go. “I’m getting another, d’you want another?” He doesn’t wait for Charlie to answer, getting up and fetching two more from Frankie, who won’t stop looking at him pityingly. When he returns Charlie looks at both glasses and raises his eyebrows.

“I didn’t say I wanted one,” he says.

“Yeah, they’re for me,” Constantine says, sliding back into his chair.

“Oi, Johnny!” calls a voice from the other end of the bar. Constantine winces, and determinedly doesn’t look over. “Johnboy! Conjob!” the voice calls, louder, joined by a few others trying increasingly ridiculous nicknames.

“I think,” Charlie says, looking like he’s about to laugh, “that those people might be trying to get your attention.” His face adopts a speculative look, “They are friends, aren’t they? You didn’t con them or curse their families or something?” Constantine shoots him a glare before he can stop himself.

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth, “I know them.”

“Are you going to introduce me?” Charlie asks.

“No,” he says, turning and watching as the group approaches with a growing sense of doom, “you wouldn’t like them, not an upstanding citizen among them, maybe we should lea-- alright kiddas?” he asks reluctantly, as the gaggle of idiots swarms the table.

“Alright, John?” asks the leader, Des, before turning to look at Charlie. His eyes widen suddenly, “Oi, Vic Sage! You’re Vic Sage! It’s Vic, lads!” The group begins talking excitedly amongst themselves, pushing into the seats at the table. Charlie, for his part, looks momentarily stunned.

“Uh, hello?” He says to Des, who is now sitting next to him, “How do you know that?”

“John’s never done talking about you!” Des says, slapping Constantine heartily on the shoulder, “Has he finally stopped being a wanker, then?”

“Is he ever done being a wanker?” Charlie asks with a smile on his lips, cutting his eyes curiously towards Constantine while Des and the others around the table laugh uproariously.

“I like him, John, he’s a riot!” says Angelique, who is sitting on Charlie’s other side.

“You know what’s a real bloody riot?” Constantine says, “Your team, losing to Chelsea on Saturday.” This, predictably, kicks off a round of raucous argument about football, steering the conversation into safer waters. Constantine allows himself to be drawn into a conversation with Mark only after it’s become clear that Des and Angelique are now trying to convince Charlie about the relative merits of Arsenal and Chelsea. It’s easy to fall into a companionable conversation, and Charlie appears to have made his peace with the fact that there is no escape, and doesn’t seem offended when Des and the rest rib him about asking for a cranberry juice when it’s time to get the next round.

During a lull in the conversation when Des has gone to pick up maybe the fourth round, Mark, now several pints deep, turns to Charlie.

“You know, you should talk about football on your show. Real football, none of that shit you Yanks watch.”

“On my show?” Charlie asks, looking at Constantine curiously.

“Yeah, you know, the news. I bet your lot wouldn’t mind a break between all the fires and the murders. It’d be better than whatever sport you people usually like. Hockey, whatever.”

“That’s Canadians, Mark,” Jasmine supplies helpfully from across the table. Mark shrugs.

“They all sound the bloody same, don’t they,” he says.

“Oi, maybe we--” Constantine starts, but Charlie talks over him.

“You say that like you’ve seen my show,” he says.

“Should talk about--” Constantine continues, a little louder.

“’Course I have,” Mark says, furrowing his brow, “John here showed us--”

“Literally anything else,” Constantine nearly shouts, desperately. The others around the table cast worried glances his way. Romesh, sitting on Mark’s other side, tries to draw his attention, but Mark is fixed on his target now.

“Aw, what’s the matter Johnny, don’t want your little crush to know--”

“Mark, maybe you shouldn’t--” Angelique breaks in, looking nervously between Constantine, who is contemplating how best to curse Mark without making it obvious, and Charlie, who is staring at Constantine coolly.

“That you’re in here every night like a thirteen-year-old girl, whining about how miserable you are--”

“Leave it out, Mark,” Asap snaps, but Mark doesn’t even seem to have heard.

“Just because you can’t handle being in loooove--” Charlie stands up suddenly, his face completely blank.

“It was nice to meet you all,” he says, not looking at Constantine, “but I have to go.” He moves so quickly towards the stairs that he hardly seems to cover the intervening space. The table has gone deathly still, everybody utterly silent and avoiding looking at each other, even Mark. Constantine stands, drawing everybody’s eyes.

“Thanks a fucking lot, you fucking cunt,” he hisses at Mark, snatching up his coat and chasing Charlie out into the night.

***

Charlie hasn’t made it far when Constantine catches up to him, heading in the direction of the tube station.

“Charlie,” he says, “I’m sorry about Mark, he’s a bloody berk.” Charlie doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at him. “What’s the matter?” he asks, desperately.

“I’m tired,” Charlie says shortly, “I want to go back to the hotel. You can stay here.”

“I’m not going to just let you wander in London, you’ll get lost. I’ll come with you.”

“I’ll get a cab,” Charlie waves at a passing hackney, which pulls over immediately, “There. Done.” Charlie gets in, giving the name of the hotel as he does. Constantine hurries around to the other door and slips in. Charlie looks at him, cheek twitching as if he’s grinding his teeth.

“Gotta make sure he doesn’t take you to Essex or something to run up the tab. No offence, mate,” he says to the cabbie.

“None taken, John,” says the cabbie, deftly dodging a few jaywalkers at Mornington Crescent.

“I, uh, sorry, what?” says Constantine.

“Phil,” says the cabbie and, when Constantine continues to stare at him blankly, “we met at The Abbey? You’re Chas’ mate.”

“Oh, yeah, how’s it going, mate?”

“Oh, you know, can’t complain, can’t complain. Ruddy government’s gone to the dogs and the weather’s never been worse, but what do I know, I’m just a cabbie,” Phil says mildly, accelerating aggressively and cutting off several cars to catch the light, “And who’s this?” he nods in the mirror at Charlie, “The famous Vic?” Constantine coughs uncomfortably.

“Trust me, mate, now’s not a good time.” The cabbie nods thoughtfully, and for a moment seems like he’s going to offer some advice, but blessedly doesn’t. Charlie, for his part, continues to radiate frosty silence, his arms firmly crossed over his chest, staring out at London rushing by. When they pull up at the hotel, Charlie gets out immediately, tossing some money at Phil without looking at it and slamming the door, Constantine hurries to follow, not looking back as Phil calls after them, thanking Charlie for the tip.

“Charlie,” Constantine hisses, following him up the stairs to the door of the hotel, “Charlie, will you just stop and talk to me?”

“I can find my way to my own room, John,” he says coldly, “you can go.”

“No, I’m not going to just bloody leave,” Constantine says, drawing the disapproving eye of the receptionist as he follows Charlie through the lobby and into the stairwell.

“Oh, no?” Charlie asks, ascending the stairs without looking back at him, “That would be a change.” He throws open the door to his floor and begins fumbling in his pocket for the key.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Constantine says.

“No? Then ask your friends. They know a lot about your life, maybe they can tell you,” Charlie says, pushing into his room and trying to slam the door. Constantine grunts as the door slams against his foot.

“Look,” he says, stepping into the room and closing the door, “I’m sorry about Mark, alright? I’m sorry about all those wankers--”

“John!” Charlie wheels to face him, “This isn’t about him, or any of them! This is about you! You didn’t contact me for a month! I thought you were dead, until I managed to track down someone who had your number--”

“I didn’t mean that,” Constantine says hastily, “I just changed back to my English number--”

“Bullshit,” Charlie says, “when you change your number you tell people, especially people who--” he cuts himself off, then adds, “you don’t just _vanish_.” He paces away from the door and Constantine, towards the window. “Did it ever even occur to you that I might be worried about you? Or were you too busy pouring out your heart to literally everybody but me?”

“I didn’t, I-I--” Constantine stammers, taken aback, taking a step towards Charlie, “they’re just, they’re me mates, and they were here, and--”

“I’m here now, John,” Charlie says, moving further back so he’s almost in the corner, as far from Constantine as he can get, “I came here hoping that you’d admit the truth and maybe, god forbid, actually apologize for everything that you did, and you didn’t. And I don’t think you ever would have, either. You just kept the lie going and going, and what am I supposed to take from that, other than that you’re a selfish, inconsiderate asshole who doesn’t actually care about me at all?”

“Or maybe I left _because_ I care?” He doesn’t quite shout back, moving so he’s standing right in front of Charlie, whose hands, some part of him notes, are clenching into fists, “Maybe it means I was thinking of your own--” Charlie’s face contorts, and he takes a sudden vicious swing, not at Constantine but at the wall, barely managing to stop himself before he makes contact with it. Constantine flinches, taking a surprised step back. Charlie leans against the wall, breathing heavily, forehead pressed against the plaster.

“See?” says Constantine, “I told you, it always comes to this.” Charlie turns to look at him, expression searching. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, brows knitting together in anger, then he stops and his face goes cool and blank.

“I need to meditate,” he says, his voice over-controlled, “you can stay or go. I don’t care.” He strips off his jacket and closes his eyes, sinking down and sitting cross-legged without another word. Constantine stares at him, aware from previous experience that nothing will rouse Charlie mid-meditation. He looks at the door, contemplates sneaking out for the briefest moment, then looks back at Charlie and, sighing, toes his shoes off and flops onto the bed.


	2. Unity of Time

"I understand," Charlie speaks suddenly and without warning into the oppressively still air of the hotel room. Constantine, half-asleep, jerks up, startled. 

"Eh?" he says, after struggling for a moment to retain his balance on the bed. 

"I understand," Charlie repeats, unfolding himself from what looks to be an incredibly uncomfortable, if intriguingly flexible, position, "why you did it, I mean.”

"I... alright?" Constantine says warily, as Charlie sits on the bed facing him.

"You apparently don’t have the best track record when it comes to relationships, and you think that everybody you get close to will die or hate you," he holds up a finger to forestall Constantine, who is about to insist that they always do, “I should have talked to you about it, but instead I let you run off, and then came here to give you some secret test of your character,” he leans forward and pulls Constantine into a hug, "I was angry and I wasn’t thinking straight. I'm sorry, John."

"Er, that's alright, Charlie," Constantine says, awkwardly patting him on the back. Charlie buries his face in the crook of Constantine's neck.

"Next time you run off for a month and then lie to me about it, I will kill you,” Charlie says, his voice only a little muffled. 

"What?" Constantine says, "Lie? I didn't--" Charlie pulls back from him and there's something dangerous in his eyes. Constantine's mouth clicks shut, and he swallows. "Right, alright, I might have been... a little untruthful." Charlie arches an eyebrow. "A lot untruthful?" Constantine tries again, "Look, I'm sorry, yeah? I just said the first thing that came to mind, and Chas only just told me Ziv was dead, so--"

"Wait, you really had a friend who's actually dead, and you tried to use that fact to manipulate me?"

"It sounds bad when you say it like that," Constantine mutters. Charlie folds his arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"And how would you rather I say it?" Constantine opens his mouth, then realizes there's no way to spin it. He runs a hand through his hair. 

"That I was in a right state and I thought you were angry, which, incidentally, you were, and so I said the first thing that came to mind which, yes, was my dead friend because all my friends are dead, and I have such a bad track record that it doesn’t even really register as a tragedy anymore?” Charlie regards him silently.

“Okay,” he says finally, “all right. But maybe next time you could try just telling me the truth from the start?”

“That sounds awful,” Constantine grins, his smile growing when Charlie struggles to suppress his own grin.

“Trust me, being ditched for a month after saving you from your crazy ex and nearly getting possessed again is a lot worse,” he looks off to the side, a faraway look in his eyes, “and you left me with so much Chinese food.” Constantine snorts.

“I know. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive meself. All that Chinese food, wasted.”

“You asshole,” Charlie says, grabbing Constantine by the lapels and dragging him into a kiss. Constantine sinks into it for a moment, then pushes Charlie’s chest gently.

“Seriously,” he breathes, “I’m invested now. What happened to the Chinese food?” Charlie huffs a laugh.

“There was too much for me, I had to invite Myra over.”

“Wait, who’s--” he’s cut off by Charlie kissing him again, and he shifts back further, bumping into the headboard, “who’s Myra?”

“My ex,” Charlie says innocently.

“Your _wha_ \--” Constantine is cut off by Charlie climbing into his lap and kissing him, pressing him back against the headboard. He struggles for a moment, useless against Charlie’s arms, before giving in.

They’re there for maybe five minutes before Constantine becomes slowly aware of a soft knocking on the room's door. Charlie breaks away from the kiss for a moment to glance towards the door, then shrugs, letting himself be drawn back in. The knocking slowly grows more insistent, getting increasingly louder and becoming constant, as if the person is using both hands to pound on the door. Charlie breaks off again, turning to face the door once more, then glances at the clock, rolls his eyes and rolls off the bed. He opens the door, and immediately slams it shut again, backing into the room. Constantine, on high alert, stumbles out of the bed and approaches Charlie. 

"Charlie, what--"

"It was me," Charlie says, turning his wide eyes on Constantine, "John, _I_ was at the door." Constantine moves quickly to the peephole and looks out. Charlie is standing there, motionless, a close-mouthed grin fixed unnaturally on his face. Ignoring the smile, everything about him is the perfect image of the man standing behind Constantine, except... Constantine looks closer. The man in the hallway is wearing Charlie's suit, his red hair neatly combed and gelled, but the part is on the right, and his buttons fasten on the wrong side of his jacket. Constantine sighs and lets his forehead thud gently against the door.

“We had such a good thing going,” he says mournfully, then looks over his shoulder at Charlie and grins wickedly, “you reckon we should ask him in for a threes--”

“No!” Charlie scowls, crossing his arms uncomfortably across his chest.

“But evil twins are--”

“John!”

“Okay, okay,” he says, then cautiously opens the door, “alright, la’?” he asks.

“Jesus, don’t--” Charlie says, coming up to stand behind him as if ready to force the door closed against his evil twin’s incursion. DoppelCharlie, for his part, tilts his head and grins broadly, revealing two rows of needle-sharp, translucently green teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, very bloody intimidating,” Constantine says, patting his trouser pockets for his cigarettes, and noticing for the first time that Charlie had managed to unbutton and unzip his trousers, “say your piece or piss off.” DoppelCharlie looks taken aback, put off his stride. He hears the real Charlie stifle a nervous laugh behind him. DoppelCharlie coughs awkwardly and strikes a pose that he no doubt thinks is intimidating, gesturing his hands and summoning a ball of light in front of himself.

“Very pretty,” Constantine says, as DoppelCharlie begins to back down the corridor, “but what--” he cuts off as Charlie stumbles out from behind him, face gone slack and eyes fixated on the ball of light. “Ah, bloody hell,” he mutters to himself, moving after the two Charlies, struggling to do up his flies and fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket. “Mine be yours and yours be mine,” he says hastily as he chucks the package at DoppelCharlie. DoppelCharlie scowls, but deftly snatches the cigarettes out of the air and vanishes into the stairwell. Charlie leans against the wall, one hand to his head.

“John,” he says slowly, “did you just trade a pack of cigarettes for me?”

“Twenty Silk Cut,” Constantine says woefully, “I’ll miss them.” Charlie smacks him lightly on the shoulder, then puts a hand to his own head.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, as Constantine leads him back into the room. Constantine shrugs.

“A lantern man, maybe? Bloody nuisances, those watery pricks. You don’t usually see them this far from their ponds,” he kicks the door closed, “dunno why he was after you specifically. It’s all very strange, good thing he’s gone.” He pushes Charlie up against the wall and kisses him hard. Charlie kisses back for a few seconds, but gently pushes Constantine away when his hands start to wander. Constantine, undeterred, moves to touch him again.

“Cut that out,” he says, detaching Constantine’s hands from his hips.

“Would you rather we move to the bed?” Constantine asks as Charlie swats away a hand that’s trying to snake up under his shirt.

“No, John,” Charlie says firmly, grabbing Constantine’s shoulders and trying to hold him at arm’s length. Constantine feels his heart clench up and his stomach drop.

“Is this because you’re still angry with me?” Charlie’s brow furrows, and he lets his hands fall away from Constantine’s shoulders, no longer holding him off.

“It’s because a creepy doppelgänger of me just tried to abduct me,” Charlie says slowly, “weirdly enough, that’s sort of killed the mood for me.” Constantine relaxes and waves his hand dismissively.

“It was probably nothing, these things happen,” he says.

“You don’t think that it’s at all weird that a supernatural creature came here, to a place that you say is far from its normal environment, to target us specifically? That doesn’t strike you as worrying?” Constantine considers.

“I’ll be honest with you, Charlie, it’s not exactly an unusual day for me,” Constantine says, letting his head fall forwards until it is resting on Charlie’s shoulder, “maybe it’d be best if we got some sleep, yeah? If you want we can look into it in the morning.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t--” Charlie starts.

“Shh,” Constantine says, grabbing him by the upper arms and steering him backwards to the bed, backing him up until his knees hit the edge and Charlie is forced to sit down, “honestly Charlie, you worry too much. Just trust me when I say that this is how London is, especially when I’m around.” He rifles through Charlie’s suitcase and tosses some pyjamas at him.

“Get some sleep, “ he says, closing the suitcase, “I’ll come back in the morning,” he stops and thinks for a second, “maybe best to make that the afternoon.”

“John, wait,” Charlie says, “stay here tonight.”

“Scared?” Constantine asks, grinning. Charlie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“Oh, obviously. But also I haven’t seen you for almost a month. I want you to stay. To sleep.” He adds, at Constantine’s lascivious grin.

“You know I don’t have any pyjamas,” Constantine says, grin undiminished. Charlie laughs softly as he heads towards the toilet.

“You can wear some of my stuff,” he says, gesturing towards the suitcase with his toothbrush.

“Spoilsport,” Constantine says.

***

Constantine wakes slowly to the sound of typing. For a few long moments he’s distracted by the surprising cleanliness of the sheets, and the softness of the bed, so unlike the flat he’s been renting. He slowly rolls his head to the right, turning to face Charlie, who is focused on his laptop.

“You weren’t kidding about the afternoon,” Charlie says mildly without looking down at him. Constantine huffs a laugh into the bedding and drags himself up to look at Charlie’s screen.

  
“Are you googling t’ lantern man?” he asks, voice still fuzzy and thick with sleep.

“Call me a worrywart if you wish, John, but waking up to find that you’ve drawn what I assume is a fairly elaborate protective circle around my bed doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.” He gestures at the intricate, faintly glowing chalk lines that circle the bed, carrying on up the wall to encompass the headboard.

“Oh, that’s just a precaution, love, I don’t have any more fags to swap for you, didn’t want to have to risk me coat.” Charlie looks at him, one eyebrow raised disbelievingly.

“A precaution that you took in the middle of the night while I was sleeping, after assuring me that there was nothing to worry about and it was a crazy coincidence?” Constantine coughs uncomfortably. Charlie rolls his eyes, “John, we _just_ had this conversation. You can tell me the truth.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he says after a long stretch of silence.

“See, a little honesty doesn’t--”

“Because Ziv was chasing himself around London just before he drowned.” Charlie regards him coolly for a long moment. “Sorry,” he tries, into the growing silence, and then, “I was going to tell you this morning! You just beat me to it!” He gestures at the laptop exasperatedly.

“I don’t need you to take care of me, John,” Charlie says it calmly, but a hard edge has crept into his voice. Constantine opens his mouth to respond, decides not to press his luck, and looks down at his hands. Charlie sighs, and Constantine hears his head thump gently against the headboard.

“Okay,” Charlie says eventually, “okay, so there’s clearly something going on here. You said it was out of its usual environment, and the internet seems to agree. Why would it come here, and is it after you specifically? I guess what I’m really asking here is what did you do to make them angry?”

“I dunno Charlie,” Constantine says, stretching, “it were trying to drag _you_ off to some bog, how d’you know it weren’t you it were angry with?” Charlie gives him the flattest, coldest look he’s ever seen, and Constantine struggles to stifle a laugh. “All right, look, seriously, I’ve done nowt to any pond life ‘round here. So if it has a problem it isn’t with me specifically, alright?” He rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom, emerging some time later to find Charlie sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes on.

“Aw, are we going out right now?” Constantine asks, “I’m barely awake.” Charlie snorts and rolls his eyes towards the clock, now reading 12:43.

“You can stay here if you want, John,” he says, standing up, “but I’m kind of preoccupied with figuring out why there’s a doppelgänger of me running around.”

“No, no,” Constantine says, ambling towards the pile that he left his trousers in, “I’m not going to let you wander around London on your own. With your luck you’re liable to end up kidnapped by faeries, or slipping into London Below.” He straightens up and turns around to find Charlie staring at him inscrutably.

“I have no idea if that’s even a thing,” Charlie says, sounding vaguely flustered.

“Exactly,” Constantine says triumphantly, hopping a bit as he shimmies into his trousers, “that’s why you need me.”

***

They wait for Chas on the front steps of the hotel, Constantine having taken issue with the blatant flirting of the receptionist, and the fact that Charlie had done nothing to dissuade her. He had claimed that he was just asking about strange happenings in the area lately, but Constantine wasn’t convinced. Charlie, for his part, seems deeply amused by the whole thing, the prick. When Chas finally arrives, Charlie slips immediately into the front seat.

“Hi Chas, can you tell me anything about Ziv’s last movements?” he says before Chas can say hello. Chas looks into the rearview mirror, making eye contact with Constantine as he flops into the backseat. Constantine waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s alright Chas, he knows about everything. Turns out Ziv probably actually was murdered. That prick.”

“When you say everything, d’you mean--?”

“He knows why I really came to London, yeah.”

“So he knows about you getting drunk and crying on my shoulder while I drove you home every night?” Charlie makes a coughing, choking noise that is dangerously close to a laugh.

“No,” Charlie says, trying to get his breathing back under control, “I did not.”

“Why, Chas?” Constantine says, glaring at Chas.

“Think of it as my payment for a month of free rides,” Chas says, grinning. Constantine crosses his arms over his chest and slouches into the seat.

“Take us to the Thames, Chas,” he says sulkily, “somewhere we can get to the water, not too close to the tourists.”

“So,” Charlie says, into the growing silence, “what can you tell me about Ziv?

“I can tell you he was a prick,” Constantine pipes up from the backseat. Charlie ignores him.

“Where was he just before he died? Do you know who he saw?”

“Er, Imogen’s the one that saw him last, I think,” Chas says, “A friend of ours. She said that he stopped by her pub and told her that he’d been seeing himself around the city. She didn’t think he was suicidal, but it was always hard to tell what was going on with him, he was always--”

“A bit of a dickhead?” Constantine finishes helpfully.

“Well, yeah,” Chas agrees amiably.

“Sorry, why do you hate him?” Charlie asks, looking between Chas and Constantine.

“He wanted to be in the army but never managed it, and he got in with us by claiming he could get military discounts on drink. By the time we realized he was full of shite there was no dodging him. John never forgave him for that.”

“Yeah, and he bloody called me a slag when I wouldn’t suck him off after he so kindly offered to stoop to my level,” he leans forward so his elbow is resting in the partition, “I’ve never seen anybody so deep in the closet, Vic. He had a massive hard-on for Chas.”

“No he didn’t.” Constantine catches Charlie’s eyes in the rearview mirror and mouths ‘yes he did.’ Chas sees it, and rolls his eyes.

“So,” Constantine says, leaning back in his seat, “you’re sure he didn’t off himself just to spite me, personally?” Chas shrugs.

“Hard to say. I didn’t see him much after I got married--”

“Can’t imagine why he started avoiding you after that,” Constantine says under his breath.

“But you know Ziv, he would have left some note at the very least. Probably picked somewhere more dramatic than Epping bloody Forest.” Constantine nods. It’s a good point. He glances out the window at where they’re parked.

“This is good, Chas,” he says, opening the door and hopping out onto the pavement. Charlie follows, handing Chas a few notes, which Chas looks at wonderingly. “You shouldn’t keep paying him,” he says, loud enough for Chas to hear, “he’ll get used to it and then he won’t be able to fend for himself.” Chas flicks the Vs at Constantine, which Constantine ignores as he leads Charlie down the weathered steps and onto the filthy sand that abuts the Thames.

“This is... picturesque,” Charlie says, cautiously kicking an Irn Bru bottle, which spins itself back into the water.

“Right, like you’ve any right to talk,” Constantine says, “now shh,” he puts a finger on Charlie’s lips, enjoying his confused expression for a moment. Glancing around at the water, the nearby bridge, he starts to whistle. Charlie pulls his head back a few inches, still visibly confused.

“Are you whistling Ghost Town?” he asks, bemused. Constantine doesn’t answer, watching as mist begins to creep out of the water under the bridge, coalescing into five figures that huddle in the shade, staring out at Constantine and Charlie mistrustfully. One of them inches forward, stopping just short of stepping into the weak sunlight.

“Oi,” says the one closest to them, “y’alright bruv?”

“Amazing,” Constantine says under his breath to Charlie, “they’re chavs,” then, louder, “alright mate, you lot down from Essex, then?”

“Essex?” says one of them from under the bridge, “nah bruv, this’s our turf, innit.”

“Innit,” another one of them chimes in helpfully.

“Innit, tho,” Constantine says, nodding sagely, “Then you’ll know about any new blokes in the area, wouldn’t want to find out somebody’s been disrespecting you. I’m sure you lot know everything that happens around the water in the city.”

“Might do,” says one in the back. Two of them fist bump.

“We’re looking for a guy, might’ve looked like him last night,” he jerks a thumb at Charlie, “probably down from Essex? Killed a bloke a few days ago up in Epping Forest.” The one nearest Constantine sucks his teeth.

“Epping Forest, bruv? That’s bare ancient, like. Ain’t nobody goes there no more, you feel me?”

“The suicide pool, bruv,” one of them whispers almost reverentially.

“The suicide pool?” Constantine asks, “Like the urban legend?”

“Nah bruv, that ain’t no legend, you feel me?” another one says, popping her gum to emphasize her point, “that’s the real shit, man. I was you, I’d be leaving London, go somewhere well parched. Take your wifey on a trip to the desert, nahmean?”

“Sure,” says Constantine, “but let’s say I wanted to find the pool, you wouldn’t happen to be able to point me in the right direction? Epping Forest is a bit... broad.”

“You bloody bait, bruv?” the one nearest them asks, “We ain’t gonna start no beef with the suicide pool, blud.”

“We ain’t involved with shit outside our ends, ya feel me?” says another.

“Yeah, alright, alright,” says Constantine, “thanks anyways.” The spirits have already begun to melt away, slinking back into the silty brown water of the Thames.

“Best just be glad your peng ting ain’t dead, bruv. Count your bloody blessings,” the girl says, snapping her gum again as she runs her eyes obviously over Charlie before finally dissipating into mist.

“I think I caught, at most, a third of that,” says Charlie, stepping forwards to stand next to Constantine.

“Most of it wasn’t important,” Constantine says, glaring with narrowed eyes at the place where the female spirit had sunk back into the water.

“What’s the suicide pool?”

“An urban legend,” Constantine says absently, thinking about where they can possibly go next.

“Sure, but is it a place where people commit suicide, or are they forced to--”

“No, you don’t understand,” he says, “it really is a bloody urban legend. The suicide pool doesn’t exist, it’s just a story people tell each other. A pond in Essex that’s been poisoned by all the suicides committed there, but nobody’s ever died there, it isn’t real.”

“Well, it’s real enough that the... the water chavs seemed worried about it,” Charlie says.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “yeah, and that means somebody’s been spreading the word around London. Which means that somebody had to’ve heard it, and I know a bloke who hears everything.”

***

Charlie doesn’t question him when he jumps onto the tracks at the tube station and walks into the dark, winding tunnels. He keeps walking until the sounds and lights of London fade, and all that’s left are the faint echoes of his and Charlie’s footsteps bouncing around the unseen walls.

“Oi!” he shouts into the darkness, “Map! I want a word, mate!” For some time there are no sounds but the scurrying of rats fleeing his voice, the occasional drip of water somewhere far distant.

“Hello, John.” Map’s voice echoes through the tunnel around them, seeming to originate everywhere at once.

“I need to know about the suicide pool,” Constantine says

“Essex is beyond my jurisdiction, John. As are fairy stories.”

“Yeah, but you must’ve bloody heard about some wanker claiming that the suicide pool is real,” Constantine says into the darkness, “you have ears literally everywhere.” There is a distant rumbling, which may be from Map and may just be a train trundling along some nearby line.

“John,” Charlie says softly, as though whispering would be beyond Map’s hearing, “are you... are you talking to a subway system?”

“Nah, Map’s a real bloke,” Constantine says, “just a bit of a bloody drama queen.”

“I can hear you, John,” Map says, materializing out of the darkness over Charlie’s shoulder.

“I think he wanted you to hear him,” Charlie says, managing to disguise his surprised flinch so well that Constantine almost doesn’t see it.

“Hmm, that does sound like John,” Map says, mouth twitching into a small smile, “welcome to the underground, Victor.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” says Charlie.

“Some rumours have made their way to me,” Map says, turning to Constantine, “and I’ve noticed it down here too. There have been disruptions all around the city, magical events that can’t be explained. Things have been... returning. Old things. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed, John.” Constantine coughs.

“I’ve been bloody busy, alright? You gonna give us some hints, or are we going to be stuck down here playing twenty questions all day?”

“Uh, John,” Charlie says, sounding almost nervous, “do you hear that?” Constantine cocks his head, and notices that the rumbling sound he’d heard earlier has grown not so distant, sounding almost like a train is coming down the tracks towards them. A not altogether uncommon occurrence in London, were they not standing on a disused track leading to an abandoned station.

“Map?” he asks.

“There are no trains that should be coming through here, John,” Map says, gazing pensively in the direction of the rumbling, “neither real nor ghost.” A weak, ghostly light begins to glow from around the bend. Constantine turns to look at Map, who has vanished.

“Bloody Map,” he growls, as he and Charlie throw themselves against the walls of the tunnel. The rickety train trundles by them, the interior lighting showing three carriages heaped with corpses, stacked haphazardly on the seats and floor, limbs lolling and shaking in response to the train’s rattling. Constantine catches a hint of purposeful movement, as if there is somebody alive on the train, conducting it, but he cannot catch sight of them before the train is past.

“Okay,” says Charlie from across the tracks, “okay, was that a train full of dead people? Because it definitely looked like a train full of dead people.”

“It was a train full of dead people,” Constantine confirms.

“I told you,” Map says from out of the darkness, “old things are returning.”

“’Course they bloody are,” Constantine grumbles, “you wouldn’t maybe want to tell us that actually means, would you?” Map shrugs.

“Old legends coming back to life, I think we both know who you should ask.” Constantine sighs, long and loud.

“Bloody brilliant,” he says, “all urban legends are true and we have to go to bloody Highgate and visit that miserable twat.”

“Good luck, John” Map says, voice fading.

“Yeah, lot of bloody help you were,” Constantine mutters under his breath. A pebble-sized piece of the tunnel’s roof suddenly comes loose and smacks him on the head, bouncing off his shoulder before landing somewhere on the tracks. Constantine flicks the Vs down the tunnel in the direction Map had vanished.

“You really take me to all the best places,” Charlie says, kicking at a pile of rubbish. Constantine snorts.

“Trust me, after we go see the next bloke, you’ll be wishing we’d stayed underground.”

***

Highgate Cemetery at dusk looks much like it does at almost any other time of day—thronging with tourists determined to consume every scrap of London’s mass-produced history.

Constantine sneaks Charlie through and into the West Cemetery, threading around the gravestones and crypts before coming to rest beside a row of mausoleums on the Egyptian Avenue. He sprawls on a set of stairs and eyes the sky, still stained red by the sun.

“Are we allowed to talk now?” Charlie asks.

“Eh?” Constantine asks, freezing in the middle of extracting his cigarettes from his coat.

“You told me to be silent.”

“Oh, yeah, on the tube. Nobody talks on the tube, ‘s bloody weird,” he exhales a steady stream of smoke, “and there’re barely any stabbings either, bet that’s a real treat for you.” Charlie snorts, but doesn’t respond for a long time, pacing slowly and looking with genuine interest at the nearby tombs.

“So,” he says eventually, “we just wait here and hope that this vampire guy decides to show up?”

“Oh, he’ll be here love, trust me. Wanker can’t resist an audience,” he eyes Charlie and grins, “maybe you want to try to make yourself look even more like an innocent virgin, he’s a right bloody traditionalist.”

“I’m not a virgin, John.”

“Did someone say virgin?” There is a shuffling on top of the nearest mausoleum as the fearsome and dreaded Highgate vampire attempts to drape himself dramatically across the roof, a wilted red rose clutched in the hand that is pressed against his forehead.

“Come down from there, you prat,” Constantine says, standing up and crushing his cigarette beneath his heel. The vampire peers down at them through the gathering gloom.

“Oh,” he says, disappointed, “it’s you, Constantine,” he slides down off the roof, landing between Charlie and Constantine and gently brushing the dust and debris he’s accumulated in his ill-advised rooftop jaunt off of his billowy white shirt and dark breeches.

“Tim, this is Vic. Vic, this is Tim, the dreaded Highgate vampire.” Tim bows and sweeps his short cloak out behind him, his sheet of long, dyed black hair falling messily over his face. 

“Charmed to make your acquaintance, good sir,” Tim says. Constantine rolls his eyes at the affectation, and makes eye contact with Charlie over Tim’s bowed back. Charlie looks torn as to whether he should start laughing or not, and Constantine is immediately struggling to suppress a laugh himself. “Why, pray tell, are you gracing these hallowed grounds, Constantine?” Tim asks, standing suddenly and flourishing his cape, which Charlie deftly dodges.

“Dead serious business, Tim,” Constantine says, keeping his face as straight as he can, determinedly not looking at Charlie, whose shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter, “I’m sure you’ve heard about it, the old legends coming back.”

“Ah yes,” Tim strikes a brooding pose, gazing into the middle distance, “they came to me in the very dead of night, creeping through the unquiet graves in the stygian darkness! They begged me to partake in their dark machinations. But I resisted, John, for I knew that no good could come of it. Only calamity,” he whispers the last words, pressing one clenched fist over his heart.

“Sure,” says Constantine, lighting a cigarette, “who was it that came to you, Tim? What’d they want?”

“I could vouchsafe to you the terrible secrets that were bestowed upon me,” Tim says, eyes narrowing in consideration, “but what’s in it for me?”

“I dunno Tim, the shiny happy feeling of knowing you’ve helped your fellow man?” Tim scoffs.

“John, I swear upon my immortal soul that all I know shall be yours if, and only if, you take this missive to your dear, beauteous sister. It has been an eternity since last my eyes beheld her,” he sighs mournfully, one hand dipping into a pocket and producing a letter with a flourish, the other falling limply across his forehead. Constantine leans forward to inspect the letter, letting Tim hold the pose.

“Can’t help but notice that it’s addressed to 'My darling precious flower, radiant beauty by whom the very stars are dimm'd.' We've talked about this, mate.” The mournful sighing intensifies, Tim’s arm beginning to shake from the strain of holding it outstretched. Constantine rolls his eyes, but pockets the letter anyways.

“All right, all bloody right,” he says, “next time I’m in Liverpool she’ll get it. Now, tell us what you know about the legends.”

“Those reprobates,” Tim sniffs disdainfully, “had some very inflammatory things to say about humans and, I said, you know, “watch yerselves, I used to _be_ a human,’” Tim’s affected posh accent slowly creeps towards its native West Country lilt, “you know, those wazzocks have always been right jealous that I was so popular in the 70s. Nobody’s cared about _their_ stories in ages.”

“Well, can you blame them for being jealous?” Charlie asks ingratiatingly. Tim preens a little.

“No, I don’t suppose one can,” he says, voice gone posh again.

“So, who was it that came to you?” Charlie asks, “Any legend we might know?” Tim scoffs.

“Hardly. Have you, perchance, heard tell of the crying girl? Makes a truly appalling racket down King’s Cross? It was her, and a few of those abhorrent Mohocks,” Charlie’s eyes flick towards Constantine, who nods slightly; he knows them. A new legend and an old, a ghost story and some folk-devils. Strange bedfellows.

“What were they after with you?” Charlie asks smoothly.

“They were petitioning for me to aid and abet their little cause,” Tim says, turning to pace away and strike a pose, “but I am a dark creature of the night, Victor, I cannot be party to their cabal. I must remain... forever alone,” he rests one hand against the stonework of a nearby crypt, his other hand pressed against his lips as if he is stifling a pained cry. Charlie coughs, the urge to laugh given away by his tightly-pressed, twitching lips. Constantine picks up his momentary slack.

“What’re they planning, Tim?” Tim shrugs.

“They said that they desire to remind the world of their existence, to make the great unwashed masses remember them. You are no doubt familiar with the tragic reality of our existence, Constantine. Go unremembered for long enough and risk being swept away in the river Lethe, never to be recalled again. I tremble to think on poor Spring-heeled Jack, so thoroughly debunked that not a soul has seen him in ten years at least,” he turns to Charlie, “it is a great shame. He was a bit of a wastrel, but a right laugh of a Saturday night.”

  
“It’s a bloody shame, innit Tim,” Constantine says, clapping Tim on the shoulder cheerily, “all the good legends, gone before their time, and now we’re just stuck with the wastrels.” Tim looks down at the hand on his shoulder suspiciously.

“Indeed,” he says, eyes darting up to scrutinize Constantine’s face, clearly unsure as to whether he has been insulted or not, “you know, back in _my_ day, people had a lot more respect for legends,” he says stiffly.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Constantine, “you were turned in 1968, let’s not get bloody ahead of ourselves.” Tim scowls at him.

“I am an old soul, John,” he says acidly.

“’Course you are, Tim.” Tim sniffs and lifts his chin defiantly.

“ _Well,_ ” he says huffily, finally sure that he should be offended, “more fool me, for forgetting what an impertinent scoundrel you are, Constantine. Truly your one redeeming virtue is your angelic sister.”

“I’m sure she agrees with you, mate,” Constantine says, grinning.

“Go now, Constantine, depart this place,” he takes a few steps backwards down the path, “pray, do not forget to give my tidings to your fair sister.” Constantine waves dismissively. Scowling, Tim sweeps his cloak up and holds it over his face in stereotypical movie vampire fashion, and spins on his heel, storming off into the darkness.

“Bye, Tim,” Charlie calls after him as he attempts to impressively scale a mausoleum, falls, and angrily turns into a bat to flutter away.

“You don’t have to be nice to him, Charlie,” Constantine says, watching Tim flap away over the nearby crypts, “you might’ve noticed he’s a bit of a weirdo.” Charlie snorts.

“I wouldn’t mind having more weirdoes like him in Hub City, to be honest. It would make a nice change,” he turns and follows Constantine as he starts to make his way towards the entrance of the cemetery. Night has well and truly fallen by now, and they walk a ways in the utter silence of a graveyard at night. Constantine turns over the facts of the case in his mind

“So, you have a sister?” Charlie asks, his head tilted and eyes searching, like a curious bird.

“Oh, yeah,” Constantine says, absently lighting a cigarette, “she’s still up in Liverpool. And I have a niece. And a wanker of a brother-in-law. And a twin brother who’s all great and powerful and perfect, the dickhead. Don’t think about trading up though, I strangled him in the womb.” Charlie nods, like this is all what he expected to hear.

“Somehow I pictured you as an only child,” Charlie says after a few moments, contemplatively, “is she doing well, your sister?” Constantine shrugs.

“Guess so. Why, you want to trade up to her? She’s married, and her fella may be dim, but he’d probably notice eventually.”

“I was just asking,” Charlie says, a smile in his voice, though Constantine can no longer see his face for the darkness.

“Yeah, sure,” Constantine says, matching his laughing tone, “what about you then? Any fit brothers or sisters I could be wooing?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie says. Constantine lets the obvious question hang in the air for a minute, to see if Charlie wants to answer it. Eventually, Charlie sighs.

“I was raised in an orphanage,” he says, finally, reluctantly.

“What, like, an actual orphanage?” Constantine asks in disbelief, “What is this, a Victorian novel?”

“They didn’t try to sell us if we asked for more food, no. We had to pray a lot, but that’s just a Catholic thing.”

“You were raised in a _Catholic_ orphanage?” Constantine asks. Charlie makes a tsking sound.

“Before you ask, it was run by nuns, and we never had any trouble with the priests. Hub City does not raise placid, docile orphans. Or, more to the point, orphans who don’t routinely carry switchblades.”

“Were the nuns sexy, at least? All the nuns I know are dead sexy.” Constantine hears Charlie shudder.

“I have an idea,” Charlie says, “how about we never talk about this again?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Constantine says triumphantly.

“This case,” Charlie says desperately, “what do you make of it?” Constantine shrugs, then reaches up to swing himself over the fence, waiting for Charlie to join him on the other side before they start wending through the residential streets to the nearest tube station.

“Bunch of old legends and fairy stories joining up to remind everybody they’re real? You’d be surprised how often this happens. We just have to find wherever they’re holed up, give ‘em a slap, and that’ll be the end of it. Till next time.” Charlie nods, but doesn’t seem convinced, looking down at his feet as he walks, his brows furrowed. Constantine gently bumps his shoulder against Charlie’s. “You fancy some dinner, maybe? I’ll drop you by the hotel and pick up a takeaway so you can figure out whatever you’re thinking about. Then you’ll be done, and we’ll have the night all to ourselves.” Charlie looks at him, brows furrowed further as they make their way through the brightly lit tube station.

“There’s a lot of information to consider John, it might take all night.”

“Is it the sexy nuns that made you like this, Charlie? Worried that they’re looking down on you and judging you?” Charlie rolls his eyes as they step into the carriage.

“We’re on the train now, John, you have to stop talking.”

***

Constantine’s only been gone for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty at a stretch.

“What the bloody hell are you wearing?” he asks as he walks into the room and sees Charlie sitting cross-legged on the bed in a pair of absurdly short shorts and an impossibly tight vest.

“Shh,” Charlie says, holding up a single finger without looking away from the wall. Constantine finally tears his eyes away from Charlie’s muscles to look at the spider web of pictures and notes, joined together in inscrutable patterns by pieces of red and white string.

“How’ve you managed all this?” he sets the bag containing the curry on the table, not taking his eyes off of the sprawling web, which takes up a good third of the total wall space. “You’ve been alone in this room for twenty bloody minutes!” Charlie doesn’t answer, eyes tracing one thread as he taps his steepled fingers together in front of his face. Constantine walks up to the wall, reads a barely-legible note about several sightings involving a big black dog in Norfolk.

“Gotta say,” he says over his shoulder, “I’m well chuffed I’m not the one destroying the hotel room this time.” Charlie finally looks at him, seeming slightly dazed, as though roused from sleep.

“Destroying the hotel room?” he repeats slowly. Constantine gestures at the wall. “It’s not destroyed, they’re all stuck on with sticky tack.” Constantine peels a grainy picture of the alleged black dog off the wall, and looks at the little ball of tack there. He feels, for a moment, unaccountably disappointed. Charlie rises and takes the picture out of Constantine’s hands, sticking it gently back onto the wall.

“I think there’s more to this than there appears, John,” he says.

“Unlike your outfit,” Constantine says, taking a moment to appreciate the view. Charlie looks down at himself and blushes.

“It’s easier to meditate in this,” he says defensively.

“I didn’t say it was a problem,” Constantine says, moving closer and running one hand down Charlie’s chest and stomach. Charlie leans in for a second, but steps back before Constantine’s hand reaches his hips. Constantine bites back the urge to groan aloud.

“I have to tell you about my theory,” Charlie says, clearing his throat self-consciously when he hears the huskiness in his own voice. Constantine sighs and walks over to table, falling into the chair and pulling containers out of the plastic bag. He looks up at Charlie, who is watching him inscrutably.

“Am I allowed to eat while you explain--” he waves some naan in the general direction of the wall, at a loss for how to describe it. Charlie looks at him for a second, drops into the seat opposite, and pulls a container towards himself.

“As I was saying,” he says, poking at some chicken with a fork distractedly, “I think there’s more to this than just a bunch of legends getting together to remind people that they exist.” He bounces back to his feet, abandoning his fork, and walks over to his web of pictures and notes, pointing at a cluster of news articles. “Once I’d refined an algorithm to identify “legendary” sightings and activity--” he says ‘legendary’ with air quotes, as if, despite everything he’s seen, he isn’t convinced that they’re real-- “it was very simple to identify an interesting pattern of activity spikes. Most of these happen in downtown London--” he breaks off at Constantine’s involuntary grimace.

“... Central,” Constantine says, “central London.” Charlie rolls his eyes.

“Fine, most of these happen in _central_ London, with a spike on Wednesday, typically around here,” he points on a map to Westminster, the origination point of at least a dozen threads spinning off into tributaries of their own, “but are completely absent by Friday afternoon if not earlier. There’s almost nothing over the weekend, then there’s a resurgence by Monday afternoon.” He stops talking and taps his finger on his chin, the other arm crossed over his stomach, staring hard at the wall, and Constantine takes a moment to appreciate his arse. Charlie turns, and Constantine’s eyes jump immediately, guiltily, to his face.

“So what, they take the weekends off?” he asks, to cover for himself. Charlie frowns, considering.

“I thought that too, but then I expanded my search outside of just London. We already know that something was happening in Epping Forest, there’s a few reports of that, and a few scattered elsewhere, but tracking back to the earliest emergence of this unusual activity, it’s about two years ago, and right here,” he jabs a finger at the map of England he’s somehow acquired and tacked to the side of the wardrobe. Constantine feels ice slide down his spine and settle firmly in his stomach as Charlie’s finger lands on Liverpool. Charlie, unheeding, carries on. “The activity was very heavy here until May, when it suddenly dropped quite sharply, and the London pattern began to emerge. Now there’s spikes in this area, but generally on the weekends only.” He walks back to the table and drops back into the seat, finally taking a bite of lukewarm chicken korma. “The only thing I can’t figure out,” he says, swallowing, “is why they move between London and the second location like that. You’d think they’d pick one place and establish a seat of power, then extend their influence from there,” he shrugs, “I’ve never seen it before.” Constantine narrows his eyes and looks at the web as Charlie falls on the food in earnest.

“That’s a politician’s schedule,” Constantine says slowly, standing up to look at the map, the neat timeline of events.

“Is it?” Charlie asks, brow furrowed. Constantine shrugs.

“I have spent a disturbing amount of time around politicians. The number of them who think they understand black magic,” he shakes his head in exaggerated sorrow, “this is a politician who represents a borough of Liverpool.”

“No,” Charlie says, moving over to a pile of notes on the bed, and leafing through several, “not Liverpool, Southport. It’s centred in Southport.”

“Huh,” Constantine says, leaning in to scrutinize the map, feeling a weight suddenly lift off his shoulders, “you figured all this out, narrowed it down to Southport, using just the legends?” Constantine turns to face him as Charlie opens his laptop and sets it on the table.

“Well, yeah--” Charlie begins.

“That’s kinda hot,” Constantine says, grinning.

“Oh,” Charlie says, the tips of his ears glowing faintly pink, a blush creeping up his neck, “w-well, uh, if it really is a politician... I guess that explains the pattern, it makes sense that they’d focus all their efforts in their district.” Constantine hums in agreement, resuming his seat across from Charlie.

“The real question is, what’re they doing shacking up with legends in the first place? They’ve got a bit of psychic capital, but it’s not like they’re much bloody use.”

“I guess we’ll just have to ask him,” Charlie says, turning his computer to face Constantine. On the screen is an unremarkable ginger man uncomfortably shaking hands with a grinning man in a hi vis jacket. A prematurely grey-haired man hovers close to his shoulder, no doubt coaxing him to act as though touching a member of the general public doesn’t sear him to his very soul. “Looks like people in Southport were leaning very strongly towards electing the Conservative candidate until just before the last election, when--”

“Say he isn’t Labour, say he isn’t Labour, say he isn’t Labour,” Constantine chants under his breath.

“They suddenly elected the Liberal Democrat candidate--”

“Thank fuck,” Constantine says, leaning back in his chair and grinning. Charlie stares at him in confusion for a moment, before continuing.

“Uh, they elected him,” he points at the uncomfortable man, “Calum Bloodworth.” Constantine snorts, and Charlie looks at him questioningly.

“A name like that, you sure he’s not with UKIP?” Constantine asks. Charlie’s brow furrows. “’S a party of cunts, love,” he clarifies helpfully.

“I know what UKIP is, John, I do pay attention to the news occasionally. I’m just surprised that your mind went there. I think it kind of has a Bond villain vibe to it.” Constantine sighs mournfully.

“He could’ve set up a villainous lair on some tropical island and tried to laser some superspy’s cock off, but no, he has to waste his potential on clawing his way up through the ranks of the bloody Lib Dems,” he shakes his head in disappointment, “and now we’ve got to go break into some grotty little London flat in the middle of the night.” Charlie spins the computer to face himself, eyes flicking up to the corner of the screen.

“It’s almost 10 o’clock,” he says, “there’s no way we could come up with any sort of plan and implement it within a reasonable time frame tonight. We don’t even know where he lives yet. He could have any kind of countermeasures set up.” Constantine shrugs.

“I’ve got half a plan, love, and it’ll all work out. These wankers never put up much of a fight once you’ve sussed their grand plan.”

“Yeah well,” Charlie says, not looking up from his computer, “that’s not a mistake I want to make again.” Constantine feels a sudden shift in the air, and he opens his mouth to address it, but he doesn’t know how. Before he can try, Charlie is speaking again, his voice light, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Besides, the news is almost on, and it is my duty as a journalist to watch the news wherever I end up.” He stands and begins to carefully dismantle the parts of his web that cover the cabinet with the telly in it.

"Seriously, how did you have time to put all this together?" Constantine asks, "I was gone for twenty bloody minutes." Charlie shrugs, a tiny, proud grin playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"It was really more like thirty." 

***

When Constantine wakes up the television is still on, though the sound is down to the point of near inaudibility. The light of the screen saturates the room, playing over himself and Charlie, who is wrapped tightly around Constantine and breathing softly on his neck, and over the man who is standing at the end of the bed. Constantine starts, and immediately puts his hand to the side of Charlie’s head, drawing a small sign with this thumb, trapping him in whatever stage of sleep he’s currently in. Carefully, he extricates himself from Charlie’s arms and feels around on the floor for his pants. The man at the end of the bed remains facing away, apparently studying the intricate connections of Charlie’s web.

“Alright?” he asks cautiously when he’s managed to pull his pants up over his hips.

“You’ve done good work here,” the man says, still not turning around. He’s from Liverpool, his accent heavy and weirdly old fashioned, his voice strangely familiar, “very thorough.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t take the credit,” Constantine says, lighting a cigarette to belie his tenseness. Behind him Charlie shifts underneath the sheets, twitching and moaning slightly. Constantine hopes he hasn’t accidentally trapped him in a nightmare.

“Right,” says, the man, finally turning to face him and gesturing at Charlie, “it’s all thanks to your--”

“Hang about,” says Constantine, too startled to hold his tongue, “you’re Paul bloody McCartney.” It takes Constantine’s brain a surprisingly long time to catch up with his eyes, and he spends a few seconds trying to work out what Paul McCartney could possibly be doing in his room in the middle of the night, before registering that he looks about fifty years too young and significantly deader than the real Paul, and realizing that this must be yet another urban legend made flesh. He looks surprisingly good for having spent the past fifty odd years dead. His weird 70s outfit hangs a little off his body, and his eyes have an oddly sunken quality, his skin a little waxy, but for all of that he looks like Paul McCartney in his prime.

“That’s right,” Zombie Paul says, “you fancy an autograph?” the waxy skin pulls tight across his face as he smiles.

“Nah, you’re alright, mate.” Zombie Paul, for all his mocking tone, looks faintly disappointed.

“Well,” he says, a little stiffly, “I was sent here to tell you to back off and stop looking into all of this,” he jerks his thumb at the web over his shoulder.

“Does Mr. Bloodworth think he can scare us by sending the third-best Beatle to lecture us in the middle of the night?” Constantine asks.

“Bloodworth?” Zombie Paul snorts, “Maybe it was a waste for me to come here after all.”

“What’s that mean, then?” Constantine asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Listen, mate, can I trust you to back off and keep your nose out of this business?”

“I mean, even if I wanted to, which I bloody don’t, you’d have a tough time convincing him,” he tilts his head at Charlie, who twitches as if aware he’s been referenced. Zombie Paul rolls his eyes.

“Right, well, I couldn’t care less, to be honest, you lot deserve each other. If anybody asks, you let them know that I did my part, and I want to be left alone now,” he turns to leave.

“Oi!” Constantine calls after him, “I’m not gonna just let this go.” Zombie Paul sighs and turns back to face him, shrugging.

“What’re you going to do to me? I’m already dead. Can’t say the same for him, though.” He nods back towards the bed, and Constantine spins, his heart leaping into his throat. A hideous old woman is perched over Charlie, one spindly hand digging its long nails into his chest. In his sleep, Charlie flinches, his breathing growing ragged. Zombie Paul comes up to stand close behind him.

“They said you’d want a fight. Well, here’s the message you wanted so badly: you can say what you want, but they can get to you- and to him- whenever they want. Don’t forget it.”

“So, Bloodworth thinks that if threats won’t work he can send a beautiful woman to seduce me out of going after him?” He winks at the old hag, who looks at him in surprise, her hand coming off of Charlie’s chest and pressing against her own as she blushes slightly in the dim light of the television. Constantine curves his hand, preparing to shock her with electricity now that no part of her body is touching Charlie, but before he can utter the first word of the spell Charlie, still apparently asleep, sucker punches her hard in the face, flinging her backwards off the bed. Constantine is unable to stop himself from laughing out loud.

“I gotta say, Paul, it was a bloody good effort, but I think that’s your answer there,” there is no response from behind him, and Constantine turns to find that Zombie Paul has vanished. He spins back around, and the old hag has also gone from where she was sprawled beside the bed. Charlie is lying still, the momentum of his attack having carried him onto his front. He is breathing shallowly and moaning fitfully. He has spent this whole time trapped in the space between wakefulness and sleep, Constantine realizes. Hoping desperately that Charlie won’t remember any of this in the morning, he gently rolls him onto his back and crawls under the covers before carefully rubbing the sigil off of the side of his head. He tucks himself close against Charlie’s side, feigning sleep as Charlie is finally allowed to come to full consciousness. He twitches, arm tightening convulsively where Constantine has draped it over his own shoulders. Constantine can hear him looking around in confusion before settling back into the pillows and drawing Constantine close again. Soon his breathing becomes regular, his arm around Constantine’s shoulders warm and still and reassuring. Constantine lies awake in his arms for hours, eyes searching the darkness in case anyone appears. By the time his eyes drift closed, the sun has fully risen, the light from outside easily making its way through the flimsy hotel curtains.


	3. Unity of Action

Constantine jerks awake some time later, and for a horrible moment he thinks that Zombie Paul has returned. He blinks, and realizes that Charlie is sitting at the small table, playing music and writing something.

“What’re you listening to?” he slurs out, face still pressed against the pillow. Something about the song tugs vaguely at his memory.

“The Beatles,” Charlie says, turning up the music a little.

“ _But it’s no joke, it’s doing me harm_ ,” John Lennon sings over jangly guitars, “ _you know I can’t sleep, I can’t stop my brain_.” Constantine is immediately sitting up straight, heart pounding.

“Oh yeah?” Constantine’s voice comes out only slightly strangled, “never took you for the Beatles type, love.”

“It was so weird,” Charlie says, turning the music down again, “I woke up thinking about them.” Constantine laughs

“Weird,” he agrees, crawling out of bed and making his way to his coat, fishing his mobile out of one of the pockets and flicking through until he finds Cheryl’s number.

 _“In the middle of a case with me new fella. Wools are involved, they might have spread to Liverpool. You lot all right? Noticed any weird murders lately? Also, met Zombie Paul McCartney_ ,” he types quickly and hits send. He flops into the chair across from Charlie, and is about to ask what he’s writing when his phone buzzes in his hand.

“ _We’re all fine. New fella? What does he think of Thatcher? Did you get an autograph? Gemma says hi x_ ”

_“He’s American, I reckon he doesn’t think much about a politician who’s been out of power for over two decades in a country he’s not even from. Zombie Paul too busy being threatening for autographs. Give Gemma a kiss from me.”_

_“Ask him,”_ she texts back almost immediately.

“Er, Charlie,” Constantine says, “what’s your opinion of Margaret Thatcher?” Charlie looks up at him with a charmingly confused expression.

“The... the politician?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Yeah.”

“Uh... I think her social policies leave a lot to be desired, and her economic decisions, while ideologically sound--” Constantine nods, putting up his hand to cut Charlie off.

_“Not a fan”_

_“Good,”_ she sends, and then, a moment later, _“When are you coming to visit?”_

_“Gotta go Cheryl bye xx.”_

“Do I want to know?” Charlie asks, leaning back in his chair and grinning faintly.

“Me sister,” Constantine says, ignoring the outraged buzzing of his phone as Cheryl no doubt reprimands him for never going ‘round for a visit, “you passed her test, she likes you now.”

“What would she have done if I was in favour of Thatcherism?” Constantine snorts.

“Sod what she’dve done, I’dve pissed off and left you here to sort this mess on your own,” he says, and when Charlie laughs he adds, “you laugh, Charlie, but I’m serious.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I don’t lean to the right,” he says, standing up and stretching, “we should probably go stake out the train station. I checked Calum Bloodworth’s official twitter, and he’s giving a speech in Stevenage this afternoon.”

“I dunno what’s worse,” Constantine returns to the bed, falling onto it facedown, “politicians on twitter, or Stevenage.”

***

They spend two hours in King’s Cross-- Constantine people-watching and making rude comments about passers-by, Charlie doing his best to pretend that he isn’t amused-- before Calum Bloodworth, MP, scurries into the station. Heeled by the grey-haired man, he hurries towards the platform that the train from Stevenage is due to depart from in ten minutes. Constantine and Charlie get up to follow them, dawdling by a corner when the grey-haired man drops a sheaf of papers. For a moment while he is gathering them Constantine gets a good look at his face, wan and thin, with bruise-dark circles under his eyes. Constantine files him away as a potential power source or conduit being used by Bloodworth.

The train to Stevenage is, perhaps unsurprisingly, largely empty in the middle of the day on a Thursday. Constantine and Charlie lurk in the doorway to Bloodworth’s carriage, watching as he and the grey-haired man sequester themselves in the far corner, as far away as they can from the old woman who is sitting on her own by the window, quietly knitting an excessively lumpy jumper. Finally, only ten minutes late, the train groans into motion. Charlie checks his watch for the sixth time. Constantine stares consideringly at the pair across the carriage.

“You think we should distract his aide? Maybe throw some political influence down the corridor? He’ll probably chase after it.” Charlie laughs quietly, then nods at the pair.

“No need.” The grey-haired man is rising out of his seat, muttering something barely audible about not talking to people with writing on their shirts, then exits the carriage through the door at the far end. “Not that it actually matters, since we’re just here to— _John,_ ” he hisses Constantine’s name, but he is already halfway down the carriage. Charlie scurries to catch up, reaching Constantine’s side just as he slips into the seat across from Bloodworth. Charlie sighs resignedly, but takes the seat next to Bloodworth and stares at Constantine expectantly. For his part, Bloodworth is looking between them like a deer caught in the headlights, his wide, panicked eyes dipping briefly to their torsos.

“’Lo,” Constantine says brightly, “I’m a concerned citizen and I have several questions about my local government.”

“Look if this is about the wall thing--” Bloodworth begins, but is halted when Constantine holds a finger up to shush him.

“Namely that my local government is manipulating urban legends to stay in power.” Bloodworth’s face contorts, for the briefest moment, into what almost looks to be an expression of pure and utter confusion, before settling into the typical politician’s blankness.

“If you have any concerns about your local government you are encouraged to submit a formal inquiry in writing to--”

“Yeah, yeah--” Constantine begins, vaguely clocking the return of the grey-haired man out of the corner of his eye, a second before the man places his hand on Charlie’s head. Charlie crumples, sliding out of his seat and half onto the floor, his eyes half-closed. Constantine jumps to his feet, his sudden movement apparently startling the frozen MP into action. It is more the surprise of the empty plastic cup striking him in his chest than the force of the blow that halts him for a pivotal few seconds, allowing the grey-haired man to settle a hand on his head. Constantine collapses awkwardly at Bloodworth’s feet, the MP shuffling backwards slightly to prevent Constantine from lying on his shoes.

“Will,” says Bloodworth evenly, “could you kindly explain to me what exactly the fuck is going on here?”

“Well Calum, maybe you’d like to start us off by explaining what precisely you hoped to accomplish by chucking an empty fucking plastic cup at him?” Will gently kicks Charlie further into the space between the seats, nervously glancing down the carriage towards where the old lady no doubt continues to knit her jumper in oblivious peace.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to know exactly how to react when some random punter comes in here throwing around accusations about urban legends, and then you just... what, blessed them to death? What did you do to them?” He peers at Constantine, who is just barely managing to keep his eyes half-open, rendered almost cripplingly tired by whatever spell Will had used on him and Charlie. Will laughs uncomfortably, kicking Charlie’s arm so his hand slides under one of the nearby seats. Charlie’s eyes are fully closed now, Constantine unsure if he’s succumbed to the spell or is trying to meditate his way out of trouble again.

“Oh sure, now you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes, but come Question Time you might as well be a fucking painted rock,” Will says, taking Bloodworth’s arm and tugging him insistently towards the door, “we should probably go before whatever drugs they’re on wear off.”

“Just because they’re unhinged doesn’t make them drug addicts Will, for fuck’s sake, we aren’t the Tories.” Constantine hears the door slide open and then closed; from his vantage point on the floor he can’t actually see them leave. He struggles to keep his eyes open, and just as they are beginning to slide closed he feels Charlie shudder and start next to him. Flooded with relief, he barely feels it when Charlie jerks his legs away and his head thumps to the floor of the carriage. There is a moment of silence, and then Charlie is hauling him up by the front of his coat.

“You did this to me, this same thing, last night,” Charlie says, shaking him slightly as if to shake an answer out of him. Constantine’s head lolls backwards, the sudden spike of adrenaline and anxiety not enough to break through his semi-consciousness. Charlie searches Constantine’s face for a few long seconds. “I should have known better,” he says, almost to himself, his face a mask of disappointment and resignation.

Constantine’s body jerks as he breaks free of the spell, scrabbling to get his feet under him and take some of the pressure off of his torso where the coat is digging in. Charlie immediately releases his lapels, just as Constantine manages to find his feet, just barely stopping himself from collapsing to the floor again. Charlie’s face is impassive, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he tries, but Charlie clearly isn’t buying it, turning away and opening the door to the next carriage just a little too forcefully.

“Okay, alright, but it wasn’t what you think,” he says, following Charlie into the next carriage, dotted with a few sorry souls doomed to Stevenage, but no sign of Bloodworth or Will. “It was just a simple spell,” Constantine says into the silence between them as they walk through slowly through the carriage, Charlie inspecting the occupants of every seat as they pass, “it’d break if you had a strong enough will-- not that your will isn’t strong!” he adds as Charlie casts a cold glance back at him. “I just didn’t want you leaping in when we didn’t know what we were up against. Besides, love, he was Paul McCartney, you want to talk to a real dead Beatle, I have a mate who swears John Lennon shows up to most of his séances.” Charlie doesn’t answer, casting a glare so cold at a trio of schoolgirls that they immediately stop giggling and sit straighter, as if a particularly stern headmaster has just walked past. “Look, love,” Constantine says, growing a little desperate as Charlie slides open the door of the next carriage, “in my defence, you told me not to lie to you, you didn’t say anything about not using magic on you.” He gives Charlie his best, most winning grin.

Charlie’s brow furrows, and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but is cut off by a man with a sheet of long blond hair taking a swing at him. Charlie dodges the blow expertly, turning to watch as the man leaps at Constantine instead. The man’s brown eyes are dull and lifeless, his face strangely slack, and despite his wiry build he is surprisingly strong, a solid punch to the gut leaving Constantine wheezing.

“Oi,” he manages to gasp in Charlie’s direction, kicking out desperately as the man tries to pin him, “a little help here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry John,” Charlie says, arms crossed, a faint look of smugness on his face, “you seemed to be so intent on protecting me, I didn’t want to get in your way.”

“Ha. Bloody. Ha,” Constantine says, managing to clip the man with a flailing limb and sending him tumbling to the floor of the carriage. He lands a solid kick between the man’s legs and he curls up, howling in agony. “There,” he says, not breathing at all heavily, “sorted.” He is distracted from celebrating his victory further by a weight suddenly landing on his back, two hands scrabbling to get purchase on his face as the person behind him locks their legs around his waist. “Christ!” he says, stumbling into the wall as the person’s hand buries itself in his hair, jerking his head violently to the left. “Bloody-- stop!” he says, swatting at the person behind him in vain. He sees Charlie move out of the corner of his eye, and then the person is wrested from his back, revealing herself to be a blue-haired twenty-something, kicking and clawing at the air in her efforts to escape Charlie’s arms around her midsection and get back to pulling Constantine’s hair out. Constantine rubs at the place where her nails dug into his scalp while Charlie knocks her out with some weird Zen karate thing that Constantine would bet good money was taught to him by a mysterious old man living alone on a mountain. “Dunno why they’re all so keen on me,” Constantine mutters under his breath.

“I just can’t imagine why,” Charlie replies smoothly, his tone wry. “I think we’ve found them, by the way,” he nods in the direction of the end of the carriage, where Bloodworth and Will are arguing furiously, the latter barely holding himself upright by clutching the back of a nearby seat. So, Constantine had been nearly right-- Bloodworth wasn’t using him as a battery, he was using himself. He wonders, briefly, if Will knows that he is burning himself up, that at the rate he’s going he’ll be dead in a week. He starts down the carriage towards them, stepping purposefully over the still-writhing blond man. Behind him he hears Charlie sigh loudly, but he follows on Constantine’s heels. Will looks up at their movement and swears loudly, while Bloodworth pulls his best deer in the headlights look. Will raises a hand, clearly about to cast a spell

“Alright, look--” Constantine starts, taking a step towards the pair before he is cut off by the carriage rippling around him. Will is saying something but he barely hears it over the rushing sound in his ears. There is a sudden pressure on his chest, a cold, clammy sensation on his skin, his mouth is filled with filthy, brackish water. He finds himself on his hands and knees, retching and gasping for breath, water streaming from his nose and mouth. He looks down at his hands, planted in the disgusting sand of... where is he? The Thames? His fingers dig convulsively into the dirt as he hacks up the last of the water. He tastes iron. Is he bleeding? He brings his hands to his face, but they come away clean. There is a skittering, shifting sound to his left and he looks over to see Charlie slumping sideways into the sand, his back to Constantine. He crawls over, the corner of his vision catching the edge of something small and pale scuttling unnaturally back into the water. He does not try to look after it, he focuses on the huddled heap that is Charlie. Charlie is breathing shallowly, curled up into the fetal position, arms cradling something to his chest. Constantine carefully rolls him onto his back, and reels back in shock.

Charlie’s hands fall away from his chest, where his heart sits, pulsating grotesquely, forced through his skin. Charlie’s eyes snap open and dart to Constantine’s face, a second before he seizes his arm and hauls himself up onto his knees. Constantine tries to jerk free, but his grip is like iron, slowly pulling Constantine’s hand towards his heart. There is a chittering on the water’s edge and Constantine’s eyes are dragged there, iron filings to a magnet. Children, infants crawl out of the surf, drag themselves up onto the land with bent-backward limbs and empty, staring eyes. One of them, he sees just as his strength finally fails, is missing her right arm. His palm comes to rest on Charlie’s heart and the world around him explodes, colour and light filing his vision until only he and Charlie remain in the maelstrom, the sound of howling wind not enough to drown out Charlie’s cries of pain, blood now pouring from his heart and coating his chest. The taste of iron grows stronger, the smell of it overwhelming him. He blinks, and the darkness seems to swallow him up.

He opens his eyes and he is standing. Charlie lies before him on a table, stripped to the waist, his heart pulses sluggishly, black blood oozing out around its edges. He holds the cold metal edge of the table in his hands, leaning on it for support. Charlie’s breath is raspy and weak, catching in his throat, drowning in the smell of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol and neglect that permeates the room. Constantine’s fingers bunch up the worn tablecloth, worrying away at its familiar, filthy patterns. Behind him a glass shatters against a wall, but he does not look up. He doesn’t look up when a door creaks open, not until the newcomer is standing directly across the table from him.

“Hello, John,” says the Family Man, grinning and testing the edge of his blade on his thumb, “is it time to start the autopsy?” Constantine can’t move, his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. He can only watch as the Family Man neatly runs the knife across Charlie’s forehead, opening a deep wound that immediately wells up with blood. Charlie, for his part, makes no sound, tears tracking silently down his cheeks, mingling with the blood and leaving stains on the tablecloth as the Family Man makes quick work of his face. He peels Charlie’s face off slowly, in one piece, and underneath is smooth, unblemished skin, the featureless Question.

“There,” says the Family Man, admiring his work, “he’s better this way,” he holds the knife suspended over Charlie’s chest, and looks Constantine straight in the eyes, “isn’t he?”

“He isn’t dead,” Constantine finally manages to say, but it is too late, the knife plunges directly into the skin above Charlie’s heart. He makes no movement, his featureless face remains blank, even as the knife is dragged down through his heart, his stomach. The wound gapes, skin contracting horribly, bone glistening through the blood. Something moves beneath Charlie’s ribcage, like bits of bone that have come loose, or, perhaps, long, fat maggots. They move towards the surface, squirming and wriggling before finally emerging, a whole hand, fingers bent and spider-like as they seek purchase on Charlie’s skin. A second hand follows, pale whiteness emphasized by the gore shaken off as a blonde woman with wide, insane eyes drags herself out of Charlie’s chest. She perches herself on the very edge of the table like a bird, her nose nearly touching Constantine’s. He cannot look away from her eyes, blue and deep and empty as a dead lake. She brings a hand up to his lips, and he shudders but cannot flinch away as he feels the blood smeared there.

“Such pretty words, but what is said?” she says in her sing-songy way, dropping her hand from his lips to his chest, “A liar’s heart betrays the dead.” She doesn’t move but she is standing behind him, chin resting on his shoulder, one arm draped casually over the other and onto his chest. Charlie lies completely still, his eyes fixed glassily on the ceiling, his lips blue and parted slightly. His ribs bend backwards out of his chest, revealing a bloody emptiness, devoid of life. “A charnel house, here sits your throne. What’s now been reaped was gladly sown.” Constantine tries to turn his face away, but the huldra holds his chin in a surprisingly strong grip, forcing him to remain still. The hand on his chest digs its nails into his skin. “You did this, Johnny,” her voice is deeper, masculine, her accent American, on the edge of his mind he recognizes it, “you deserve this.” The whole room shakes, though Charlie’s body remains completely still, even as the table sways beneath him. The huldra’s arms grow tighter around him, so, so tight that he cannot breathe. The shaking comes again, stronger this time, and Constantine’s mouth is stuffed with cotton, suffocating on it.

He is on his knees in the carriage, the motion of the train making him sway slightly in place. He whips his head to his left, where Charlie is also on his knees, bent almost double. As he watches Charlie slowly disentangles his hands from where they were nearly tearing his hair out and looks up at Constantine. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and turns in time to see Will collapsing, Calum trying, unsuccessfully, to keep him upright.

“Will?” he asks as they collapse together to the floor of the carriage, “what the fuck is wrong with you, what the fuck are you doing to them?”

“You have to stop, you berk,” Constantine says, his voice unexpectedly rough, as if he has been screaming, “you’re going to kill yourself.” Will cranes his head up weakly and barely whispers something that sounds like “see it,” and the carriage shudders again. For a moment Constantine is overwhelmed by the scent of blood, his vision flickering between the carriage and the filthy beach. Beside him, Charlie moans quietly, doubling over again. Bloodworth smacks Will upside the head, and the visions cease.

“Stop it, you fucking idiot,” Bloodworth hisses, “you can’t fucking die. How will I explain this to my constituents?” Constantine hauls himself up unsteadily and half walks, half falls towards where they’re still crumpled on the ground, Will’s weight evidently proving too much for Bloodworth. He looks down on them, gaze shifting between Bloodworth’s pure confusion and Will’s petulance.

“Right,” he says, “we all do things we regret: getting an ex’s name tattooed on, sending a drunken text at 2 a.m., facilitating the murders of a few citizens so you can have a shot at wielding basically no power in the government. These things happen. I’m even willing to overlook you sending a lantern man _and_ Zombie Paul McCartney after us. All I’m asking for is a nice, “sorry for trying to kill you because you were investigating the mountain of corpses upon which I’ve built my sad attempt at a political empire,” and a pinky promise to never do it again.” He feels he is being more than reasonable here.

“Right, sorry, but who the actual fuck are you people?” he asks acidly, the effect somewhat ruined by his inability to hold his head up properly.

“Murders?” Bloodworth doesn’t quite manage to keep his voice from squeaking as he says it.

“There were no murders, Calum,” Will snaps, casting a hateful look at Constantine.

“Oh, just a few,” Constantine says.

“About a dozen,” Charlie chimes in helpfully, finally coming to stand next to Constantine.

“There were no bloody murders!” Will shouts, “I didn’t kill anybody!”

“Maybe not, but your chinas did, didn’t they?” Constantine says, taking a drag on a cigarette despite Charlie’s raised eyebrows and pointed glance at a “no smoking” sign.

“My who?” Will asks, brow furrowing.

“Y’know, those spooky fuckers who gave you those powers to get your boss into the government, and have been draining your life away in exchange.” Will’s eyes widen in shock, his mouth gaping open.

“What? I thought they sent me to environment as a ‘fuck you very much,’ and now I find out you had to kill people to get me there? I’d kill to get _out_ of this fucking job!” Bloodworth says. Will’s mouth snaps shut and he turns to glare at Bloodworth.

“Okay, first of all, there were _no fucking murders_. Secondly, it’s much better than the no ministry at all you would have had without me, you fucking ungrateful child!”

“The no _shadow_ ministry,” Bloodworth mutters petulantly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t make you join the fucking Lib Dems, did I?”

“I will _not_ take criticism about my job or my choices from a former Daily Mail hack,” Bloodworth spits back.

“You wouldn’t have gotten _anywhere_ without a ‘former Daily Mail hack’ taking care of you, Cal,” Will says.

“I don’t need fucking taken care of, you dickhead.”

“Uh, yes you abso-fucking-lutely _do_.”

“Name me one time, one time I couldn’t get myself out of whatever disaster we were in.” Will remains silent, glaring at Bloodworth mutinously. “ _Exactly_. I don’t need to be looked after, you patronising prick.” He continues to rant, but Constantine tunes him out and makes eye contact with Charlie, who is looking thoroughly bemused by the whole thing.

“Oi,” Constantine says, kicking Will’s leg lightly to get his attention back, “you don’t know who we are?”

“Don’t know you from Adam, mate,” he says, cutting Bloodworth off mid-diatribe.

“Brilliant,” says Constantine, squatting down so he’s of a level with Will, “what’s happened here is whoever made this deal with you is siphoning your life off of you every time you use their powers.”

“So?” Will says childishly.

“So... if you like breathing, stop it,” Constantine says.

“Then Calum won’t make PM in the next election.” Constantine snorts as Bloodworth gives Will a confused, slightly dismayed look.

“What, you gonna use magic to get him to switch parties, mate?” He ignores Bloodworth’s offended gasp, and quickly loops a long piece of string around Will’s wrist, knotting it three times and muttering the appropriate words.

“What’re you doing?” Will asks, trying to shake him off, too late. Constantine twirls the excess around his finger and trims it neatly.

“I’m cutting you off, squire,” Constantine says, rising as Will brings a horrified hand to his wrist, “guess you’ll have to go back to getting votes the old-fashioned way, by lying through your teeth.” He turns and begins to walk away, heeled by Charlie, as the train’s brakes begin to squeal, finally pulling into the station. “You’ll want to ring an ambulance for him,” he calls over his shoulder as he steps off the train.

***

On the train back to London he determinedly watches the drab scenery flying past, pretending not to notice that Charlie is staring at him. His curiosity is eating away at his self-control, but he isn’t sure if he wants to open that door by asking what Charlie saw.

“How long do you think it will be?” Charlie asks suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“Until whoever gave him those powers comes looking for us,” he clarifies.

“Oh, not long, love. Not long at all, since they’ve been coming after us this whole time, and we hadn’t even shut down their meal ticket. Honestly, I’d be a bit surprised if they weren’t already on this train,” he eyes the nearby passengers suspiciously. A tired-looking mum lets one of her twins pull on her ponytail while she stares dead-eyed at a book whose pages she hasn’t flipped in fifteen minutes, a teenage girl weeps uncontrollably as her be-hoodied boyfriend alternates between awkwardly patting her shoulder and surreptitiously checking his phone, and two middle-aged men seem to be pulling a _Strangers on a Train_ in the far corner.

“What did you see?” Charlie asks quietly. Constantine takes a moment dragging his eyes away from the twins, the second of whom has fished her mother’s lipstick out of her purse and drawn a picture on the window of herself and her sister in front of a smiling house. When he finally faces forward again Charlie is looking at him, expectant and guarded. Constantine reckons that if Charlie were the type to fidget he’d be vibrating with nervous energy. He tries to smile, but it sits oddly on his face and he gives it up.

“Uh, you, ” he says, eloquently, “you know,” he clarifies, in response to Charlie’s minimally furrowed brow, “you were dead,” he shrugs uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Charlie nods, for the briefest instant worrying at the very corner of his lower lip with his teeth, “I got the same.” They are both silent for a long time, Charlie taking his turn to look out the window while Constantine makes a careful study of the empty seat next to him. “Was I just... just dead? What happened to me?” Charlie breaks the silence.

“It was a load of pretentious wank, love. Honestly, I’m a bit bloody ashamed of my own brain for coming up with it. Pure symbolic twattery. What happened to me, then?” He leans forwards, interested, and now it’s Charlie’s turn to shrug, his mouth twisting for a second.

“You were shot.”

“What, is that it? ‘S a bit anticlimactic.” Charlie’s lips twist again, this time into a small grin.

“There was some drowning involved, it was a whole thing,” Charlie says, smiling fully. Constantine can’t help but smile either, finally hit by the delayed adrenaline rush of having come out the other side of yet another fight. He glances out the window as the voice over the tannoy announces their imminent arrival in London.

***

It doesn’t take them long to pick up a tail. Charlie bumps Constantine’s shoulder with his own and leans in close as they step out onto Euston Road.

“That woman is staring at us,” he says softly, tilting his head to the left, down the road. There is a pretty young woman standing at the street corner wearing an exceedingly odd coat. Every time he blinks the coat seems to change, one second appearing to be made of dried sticks and plants, the next out of what looks distressingly like cat fur, occasionally shimmering like starlight or gold. She is staring at them hard, arms crossed.

“Maybe we’d best go the other way,” Constantine says slowly, turning right instead. Charlie follows, continually glancing over his shoulder.

“The girl from the train is following us,” he says after a minute of silence, “the one who was crying. The guy is with her as well.” Constantine doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder, too busy staring ahead at the library, where a blue transit van with three track-suited men leaning casually against it is parked half on the pavement. One of them catches his eye and grins broadly, flicking open a knife.

“Fuck,” Constantine says, taking Charlie’s sleeve and tugging him across the road onto the median, barely dodging several cars, trusting Euston’s traffic to keep their pursuers at bay long enough to make it all the way across.

“I think they’re herding us somewhere,” Charlie says with almost detached interest, letting Constantine lead him across the other side of the road as he stares behind them, contemplating the converging legends.

“Yeah,” says Constantine, “not sure I’m eager to find out where that is, though.” Charlie hums in agreement. Constantine tugs him down the first street they come to, and they walk cautiously, eyeing every cross street they come to suspiciously. Everything is far too deserted for his liking, not a single pedestrian in the area, not even a car turning down the street. The legends have gotten powerful, if they can cordon off such a large swath of London so easily. He’s about to pull Charlie down a side street in an effort to duck pursuit, when he catches movement ahead of them. Several men in 18th century clothes and grotesque masks emerge from where they have been lounging and spread out across the street, tapping truncheons on their palms

“Not that way, then,” Constantine mutters, continuing straight. They are stopped short only a few minutes later when DoppelCharlie ambles around a corner of the Brunswick, followed a few steps behind by a DoppelJohn. They grin almost in unison, light glinting off their pointed teeth. DoppelCharlie raises his hands, and a globe of light flares into life there. Beside Constantine, the real Charlie immediately drops his eyes to the pavement. The doppelgängers drift up the stairs towards the Brunswick, clearly intending for them to follow. Glancing over his shoulder at where all the legends have ranged themselves to cut off escape, clearly trying to look as intimidating as possible, Constantine sighs loudly. “Let’s just get this over with,” he says, following the doppelgängers into the plaza.

***

The doppelgängers stop just outside of Nando’s, and Constantine and Charlie stop too, Constantine looking between the other them and the doors.

“Go on, then,” says the DoppelCharlie into the awkward silence, in what it clearly thinks is an American accent, “he’s waiting for you in there.”

“Oh god,” says Charlie, seeming caught between laughter and genuine offence, “is that supposed to be me? Is that what I sound like to you?” DoppelCharlie snaps its mouth shut and glares, jerking its thumb towards the interior of the building. Sighing even louder, Constantine enters. Glancing back briefly, he sees all of the legends pressed up against the windows.

There is only one patron in the restaurant, unusual for a Nando’s. Even more unusual is his appearance. He wears a close-fitting black helmet with stylized horns, a shirt with a rib cage printed on it, a cape draped down his arms as to resemble wings, and tight-fitting white breeches. His fingers are capped with sharp metallic talons, one of which he is tapping on the table in front of him. His moustache and beard are styled to points, clearly attempting to appear demonic, but behind all that he somewhat resembles, in Constantine’s opinion, Alan Carr.

“Ah, Mr. Constantine, Mr. Sage, so glad you were willing to join me.”

“I mean, willing is kind of a strong word,” Constantine slides into the booth across from Spring-heeled Jack. Charlie reluctantly joins him, perching on the edge of the vinyl bench as if ready to jump up at the slightest provocation.

“Now, now,” Jack says, grinning insincerely, “I know that there has been some unpleasantness between us, but--”

“If that’s what you want to call sending your chinas to threaten us and make a few attempts on our lives, yeah, a little unpleasantness” Constantine agrees amicably. Jack’s eyes flash, but he maintains his grin unsteadily.

“You know, most people would have had the good grace to be take the hint at the first threat and bugger off out of my business,” he says, through only slightly gritted teeth.

“If you wanted me to not investigate you, you probably shouldn’t have tried to threaten us in the first place. I didn’t even know you existed until your lantern man pitched up and tried to kidnap him,” he tilts his head at Charlie. Jack’s eyes widen in disbelief and he snorts derisively.

“You called in an American investigator after your friend died,” he says exasperatedly, “I’m not stupid, Mr. Constantine.”

“Oh, er, yeah,” Constantine says, “that was unrelated.” Jack closes his eyes for the briefest moment.

“Regardless,” he says, “I understand you approached Mr. Reed earlier today. Obviously, your interference in our work is not appreciated, so I had you both brought here today to make the message absolutely clear: back off, or we will kill you.” He sits back, clearly pleased with himself.

“I don’t think you will, mate,” Constantine says easily. Beside him, he feels Charlie tense up minutely, clearly preparing for a fight, “If you could’ve killed us you would’ve done it already. You’ve already bloody failed a few times. Honestly, it’s a bit embarrassing for all of us, so unless you’re going to go get me a hot butterfly burger with peri-salted chips and garlic bread you can just piss off.” Jack slams his fist on the table, making the drinks menu and tiny wooden chicken jump. Beside him, Charlie doesn’t even twitch.

“Mr. Constantine, I brought you here in good faith--”

“Did you?” Constantine breaks in, “I thought you brought us here to see if I’d set any nasty traps for you and your pals, and to kill us if I didn’t. Bad luck, mate,” he holds up his middle finger, “I did.” Jack’s hands ball into fists on the tabletop, his eyes seeming to glow red before his attention slides from the finger to the string wound and knotted three times around it.

“What did you do?” he asks, voice deadly calm.

“Just a little binding spell. Looked to me like you left yourself dangerously unprotected when you linked up with that political twat. He might not have been smart enough to see the flaw in your plan, but I did. He was a rubbish battery, but an excellent conduit.”

“You’re bluffing,” Jack sneers, but there’s uncertainty in his voice, “even if you’d managed to turn him into a conduit for our power, drawing on it would burn him to a cinder before you’d ever managed to destroy all of us.”

“Maybe I am, maybe not,” Constantine grins and leans back in his seat, “I dunno if that’s a risk you want to take, though. After all, I know you’ve tried to draw on him by now, and it’s not working, is it? Don’t feel bad, mate, politics aren’t for everyone. Maybe next time you can try getting some UKIP politicians in your pocket.”

“Do you honestly think we’re just going to let this stand?” Jack asks, his eyes for a moment resembling deep pits of flame. “Do you really think we can’t tear you and your pitiful friend apart if you don’t release Reed this instant? That is, if you aren’t bluffing. I hope for your sake that you are, Mr. Constantine.” Constantine scoffs.

“I’m shaking mate, really. Come and have a go, if you want. Kill me, and I’m taking all your power with me. Try and kill him, and I’ll reverse the flow of your little deal, and you lot end up with the powers of an utterly useless political wannabe. Or, you can fuck off and stop trying to fuck up politics any more than it already is, and you and your merry band of wankers can live to fail another day.” Jack glares at him hatefully, his metal-tipped fingers digging into the flesh of his own palms, clearly weighing up the pros and cons of just attacking him, consequences be damned. Finally he comes to a decision, unclenching his hands.

“I hope you realise that you’ve angered a lot of beings here today. You can’t watch your back all the time, one day, one of us is going to catch you off-guard,” Jack’s voice is deadly calm, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Constantine.

“Yeah, I hear that a lot, good luck with that,” Constantine rises, and Charlie does the same, both of them walking towards the exit, neither looking behind them at Spring-heeled Jack.

Constantine pushes through the crowd of legends who are crowded around the entrance of the restaurant, their faces sullen, a few glaring balefully as he and Charlie finally make it out of the press of bodies. Constantine glances over his shoulder when they are a street away. Nobody seems to be following them, and he heaves a sigh of relief.

“That went better than it could’ve,” he says to Charlie.

“How do you know that they won’t come after you again?” Charlie asks.

“Charlie, it’s cute how you think that I’m not going to immediately use their power to destroy them.” Charlie scrutinizes him for a long time, eyes searching for something, before he suddenly looks away.

“Won’t that kill Will?” Charlie asks. Constantine shrugs.

“Oh. Yeah, probably. I weep for him, Charlie, I truly do.” Charlie looks down at the pavement.

“That’s not a good thing, John,” he says softly.

“Yeah, well,” he says, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, “can’t really leave them bloody running around, can I? You heard him, they’re not really the forgiving type.” Charlie nods, but doesn’t say anything, eyes fixed on the middle distance. They walk together in silence back to the hotel, and when they arrive Charlie volunteers to get some food, leaving Constantine alone in the room after insisting that he needs some time alone. Constantine paces the room a few times, before making up his mind and getting to work.

***

He emerges from the trance some time later to find Charlie sitting on the end of the bed, watching him inscrutably, a bag of rapidly cooling food on the small table.

“I always wondered what people saw when I was meditating,” Charlie says into the growing silence, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face.

“You make it a bit more visually exciting,” Constantine grins, letting the ashes that were the binding thread fall to the carpet as he rises. Charlie joins him at the table, and they eat in relative silence, Charlie’s eyes flicking repeatedly between the complicated pentagram Constantine had drawn in chalk on the carpet, the ashes in its centre and, oddly, Constantine’s chest, bared slightly when he had taken off his tie and partially unbuttoned it at the start of the spell.

“I’m flattered, love,” Constantine says into the silence, “but my eyes are up here.”

“Hmm?” Charlie’s eyes jump guiltily away from Constantine’s chest and up to his face.

“I see you eyeing me up. I’m not a piece of meat, you know,” he grins and winks, Charlie’s ears turning slightly pink.

“I wasn’t-- I’m sorry,” he says, eyes now on his own hands.

“Is that where Will shot me?” Constantine asks, leaning forward slightly.

“He didn’t shoot you,” at least Charlie is looking at him now, his eyes searching for something.

“Oh god,” Constantine says, “please tell me it wasn’t Bloodw--”

“I shot you,” Charlie’s hands are open, palm up on the table, his head bowed over them. Constantine is struck dumb for a moment, mouth open slightly, searching blindly for words.

“No, you didn’t,” he finally manages to say, a bit lamely. Charlie doesn’t look up at him, so he grabs one of his hands and presses it against his own chest, “See? No harm done. You’re a good person, Charlie.” Charlie snorts, trying to withdraw his hand, but Constantine holds him fast. “You are. After all, you’re the one who convinced me not to let Will die.” Charlie’s head jerks up, his face supremely relieved. “Yeah, yeah, I let him live. Fed all the legends’ energy back through the chain to him, he’ll be healthy as a horse again, but still bound up so he can never use the power. Any legend who put their power in their pool is probably dead by now.” He lets Charlie’s hand fall away from his chest.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you did that just for me,” Charlie says, smiling lopsidedly, “and it’s not even Valentine’s Day.” Instead of withdrawing his hand, Charlie takes Constantine’s in his own and holds it on top of the table, thumb gently stroking across his palm. Constantine feels a sudden jolt of adrenaline, the urge to leap out of his chair.

“I have to go to Liverpool,” he says, unable to stop himself. Charlie goes deadly still, the smile sliding off his face like it was never there. His eyes bore into Constantine’s own, his hands withdrawn with alarming speed. Constantine’s mouth continues to run off without him, “’Cause I still have that bloody letter from Tim to deliver. Not that I really care about doing what that wanker says, but it’s always a laugh when Cheryl reads one of his letters. And besides, she’s been nagging me to go up for a visit; I haven’t been up there since Crimbo. I reckon she’d like you, and so would Gemma, my niece. Tony probably would too, but he’s a dickhead so it doesn’t really matter what he thinks. Anyways, Liverpool’s a nice city, you know, the parts of it that aren’t total shite. So, yeah, d’you fancy coming with me?” Somewhere during his rambling Charlie’s face had softened.

“They aren’t expecting me back at the station until next week,” he says, smiling, “I think I can be convinced.”


End file.
